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SOCIETY  AND   SOLITUDE 


TWELVE  CHAPTERS 


BY 


RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON 


Bcto  anB  Brines!  ©Jitton 


BOSTON 

HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN   AND    COMPANY 
New  York:  11  East  Seventeenth  Street 

(Cfce  Citoersi&e  $rcss,  Camfcri&jje 

1884 


Copyright,  1870, 
BY  RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON. 

Copyright,  1SS3, 
Br  EDWARD  W.  EMERSON. 


All  riyhts  reserved. 


The  Riverside  Press,  Cambridge  : 
Electrotyped  and  Printed  by  II.  0.  Uoughton  &  Co. 


In  compliance  with  current  copyright 
law,  U.  C.  Library  Bindery  produced 

this  replacement  volume  on  paper 

that  meets  the  ANSI  Standard  Z39.48- 

1984  to  replace  the  irreparably 

deteriorated  original. 


1994 


Al 


<£tiition 


SOCIETY   AND    SOLITUDE 

BEING  VOLUME  VII. 
OF 

EMERSON'S  COMPLETE  WORKS 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

SOCIETY  AND  SOLITUDE 7 

CIVILIZATION 

ART 39 

ELOQUENCE        

DOMESTIC  LIFE " 

FARMING 131 

WORKS  AND  DAYS 149 

BOOKS                 179 


CLUBS    . 


211 


COURAGE  . 237 

SUCCESS 2G5 

OLD  AGE  297 


SOCIETY  AND   SOLITUDE. 


SOCIETY  AND  SOLITUDE. 


I  FELL  ui  with  a  humorist  on  my  travels,  who 
had  in  his  chamber  a  cast  of  the  Rondanini  Me 
dusa,  and  who  assured  me  that  the  name  which 
that  fine  work  of  art  bore  in  the  catalogues  was 
a  misnomer,  as  he  was  convinced  that  the  sculp 
tor  who  carved  it  intended  it  for  Memory,  the 
mother  of  the  Muses.  In  the  conversation  that 
followed,  my  new  friend  made  some  extraordinary 
confessions.  "  Do  you  not  see,"  he  said,  "  the 
penalty  of  learning,  and  that  each  of  these  schol 
ars  whom  you  have  met  at  S ,  though  he  were 

to  be  the  last  man,  would,  like  the  executioner  in 
Hood's  poem,  guillotine  the  last  but  one?"  He 
added  many  lively  remarks,  but  his  evident  ear 
nestness  engaged  my  attention,  and  in  the  weeks 
that  followed  we  became  better  acquainted.  He 
had  good  abilities,  a  genial  temper,  and  no  vices ; 
but  he  had  one  defect,  —  he  could  not  speak  in  the 
tone  of  the  people.  There  was  some  paralysis  on 
his  will,  such  that  when  he  met  men  on  common 
terms  he  spoke  weakly  and  from  the  point,  like  a 


10  SOCIETY  AND  SOLITUDE. 

flighty  girl.  His  consciousness  of  the  fault  made  it 
worse.  He  envied  every  drover  and  lumberman 
in  the  tavern  their  manly  speech.  He  coveted 
Mirabeau's  don  terrible  de  lafamiliarite,  believing 
that  he  whose  sympathy  goes  lowest  is  the  man 
from  whom  kings  have  the  most  to  fear.  For  him 
self  he  declared  that  he  could  not  get  enough  alone 
to  write  a  letter  to  a  friend.  He  left  the  city  ;  ho 
hid  himself  in  pastures.  The  solitary  river  was 
not  solitary  enough  ;  the  sun  and  moon  put  him 
out.  When  he  bought  a  house,  the  first  thing  he 
did  was  to  plant  trees.  He  could  not  enough  con 
ceal  himself.  Set  a  hedge  here  ;  set  oaks  there,  — 
trees  behind  trees;  above  all,  set  evergreens,  for 
they  will  keep  a  secret  all  the  year  round.  The 
most  agreeable  compliment  you  could  pay  him  was 
to  imply  that  you  had  not  observed  him  in  a  house 
or  a  street  where  you  had  met  him.  Whilst  he  suf 
fered  at  being  seen  where  he  was,  he  consoled  him 
self  with  the  delicious,  thought  of  the  inconceivable 
number  of  places  where  he  was  not.  All  he  wished 
of  his  tailor  was  to  provide  that  sober  mean  of 
color  and  cut  which  would  never  detain  the  eye. 
for  a  moment.  He  went  to  Vienna,  to  Smyrna,  to 
London.  In  all  the  variety  of  costumes,  a  carni 
val,  a  kaleidoscope  of  clothes,  to  his  horror  he 
could  never  discover  a  man  in  the  street  who  wore 
anything  like  his  own  dress.  He  would  have  given 


SOCIETY  AND  SOLITUDE.  11 

his  soul  for  the  ring  of  Gyges.  His  dismay  at  his 
visibility  had  blunted  the  fears  of  mortality.  "  Do 
you  think,"  he  said,  "  I  am  in  such  great  terror  of 
being  shot,  —  I,  who  am  only  waiting  to  shuffle  off 
my  corporeal  jacket  to  slip  away  into  the  back 
stars,  and  put  diameters  of  the  solar  system  and 
sidereal  orbits  between  me  and  all  souls,  —  there 
to  wear  out  ages  in  solitude,  and  forget  memory 
itself,  if  it  be  possible  ?  "  He  had  a  remorse  run 
ning  to  despair  of  his  social  gaucheries,  and  walked 
miles  and  miles  to  get  the  twitchings  out  of  his  face, 
the  starts  and  shrugs  out  of  his  arms  and  shoulders. 
God  may  forgive  sins,  he  said,  but  awkwardness 
has  no  forgiveness  in  heaven  or  earth.  He  admired 
in  Newton  not  so  much  his  theory  of  the  moon  as 
his  letter  to  Collins,  in  which  he  forbade  him  to 
insert  his  name  with  the  solution  of  the  problem  in 
the  C1  Philosophical  Transactions  "  :  "  It  would  per 
haps  increase  my  acquaintance,  the  thing  which  I 
chiefly  study  to  decline." 

These  conversations  led  me  somewhat  later  to 
the  knowledge  of  similar  cases,  and  to  the  dis 
covery  that  they  are  not  of  very  infrequent  occur 
rence.  Few  substances  are  found  pure  in  nature. 
Those  constitutions  which  can  bear  in  open  day 
the  rough  dealing  of  the  world  must  be  of  that 
mean  and  average  structure  such  as  iron  and  salt, 
atmospheric  air,  and  water.  But  there  are  metals, 


12  SOCIETY  AND  SOLITUDE. 

like  potassium  and  sodium,  which,  to  be  kept  pure, 
must  be  kept  under  naptha.  Such  are  the  talents 
determined  on  some  specialty,  which  a  culminating 
civilization  fosters  in  the  heart  of  great  cities  and 
in  royal  chambers.  Nature  protects  her  own  work. 
To  the  culture  of  the  world  an  Archimedes,  a  New 
ton  is  indispensable ;  so  she  guards  them  by  a  cer 
tain  aridity.  If  these  had  been  good  fellows,  fond 
of  dancing,  port,  and  clubs,  we  should  have  had  no 
41  Theory  of  the  Sphere "  and  no  "  Priucipia." 
They  had  that  necessity  of  isolation  which  genius 
feels.  Each  must  stand  oil  his  glass  tripod  if  he 
would  keep  his  electricity.  Ev4eii  Swedenborg, 
whose  theory  of  the  universe  is  based  011  affection, 
and  who  reprobates  to  weariness  the  danger  and 
vice  of  pure  intellect,  is  constrained  to  make  an  ex 
traordinary  exception  ;  "  There  are  also  angels  who 
do  not  live  conaociated,  but  separate,  house  and 
house ;  these  dwell  in  the  midst  of  heaven,  because 
they  are  the  best  of  angels." 

We  have  known  many  fine  geniuses  with  that 
imperfection  that  they  cannot  do  anything  useful, 
not  so  much  as  write  one  clean  sentence.  'T  is 
worse,  and  tragic,  that  no  man  is  fit  for  society 
who  has  fine  traits.  At  a  distance  he  is  admired, 
but  bring  him  hand  to  hand,  he  is  a  cripple.  One 
protects  himself  by  solitude,  and  one  by  courtesy, 
and  one  by  an  acid,  worldly  manner,  —  each  con- 


SOCIETY  AXD  SOLITUDE.  13 

coaling  how  lie  can  the  thinness  of  his  skin  and  his 
incapacity  for  strict  association.  But  there  is  no 
remedy  that  can  reach  the  heart  of  the  disease  but 
either  habits  q£ 'self-reliance  that  should  go  in  prac 
tice  to  making  the  man  independent  of  the  human 
race,  or  else  a  religion  of  love.  Now  he  hardly 
seems  entitled  to  marry  :  for  how  can  he  protect 
a  woman,  who  cannot  protect  himself  ? 

We  pray  to  Jbe  conventional.  But  the  wary 
Heaven  takes  care  you  shall  not  be,  if  there  is  any 
thing  good  in  you.  Dante  was  very  bad  company, 
and  was  never  invited  to  dinner.  Michael  Angelo 
had  a  sad,  sour  time  of  it.  The  ministers  of  beauty 
are  rarely  beautiful  in  coaches  and  saloons.  Colum 
bus  discovered  no  isle  or  key  so  lonely  as  himself. 
Yet  each  of  these  potentates  saw  well  the  reason 
of  his  exclusion.  Solitary  was  he  ?  Why,  yes  ; 
but  his  society  was  limited  only  by  the  amount  of 
brain  Nature  appropriated  in  that  age  to  carry  on 
the  government  of  the  world.  "  If  I  stay,"  said 
Dante,  when  there  was  question  of  going  to  Rome, 
"  who  will  go  ?  and  if  I  go,  who  will  stay  ?  " 

But  the  necessity  of  solitude  is  deeper  than  we 
have  said,  and  is  organic.  I  have  seen  many  a 
philosopher  whose  world  is  large  enough  for  only 
one  person.  He  affects  to  be  a  good  companion ; 
but  v/e  are  still  surprising  his  secret,  that  lie  means 
and  needs  to  impose  his  system  on  all  the  rest. 


14  SOCIETY  AND  SOLITUDE. 

The  determination  of  each  is  from  all  the  others, 
like  that  of  each  tree  up  into  free  space.  'T  is  no 
wonder,  when  each  has  his  whole  head,  our  societies 
should  be  .so  small.  Like  President  Tyler,  our 
party  falls  from  -us  every  day,  and  we  must  ride 
in  a  sulky  at  last.  Dear  heart !  take  it  sadly  home 
to  thee,  —  there  is  no  co-operation.  We  begin  with 
friendships,  and  all  our  youth  is  a  reconnoitering 
and  recruiting  of  the  holy  fraternity  they  shall  com 
bine  for  the  salvation  of  men.  But  so  the  remoter 
stars  seem  a  nebula  of  united  light,  yet  there  is  no 
group  which  a  telescope  will  not  resolve  ;  and  the 
dearest  friends  are  separated  by  impassable  gulfs. 
The  co-operation  is  involuntary,  and  is  put  upon 
us  by  the  Genius  of  Life,  wrho  reserves  this  as  a 
part  of  his  prerogative.  'Tis  fine  for  us  to  talk; 
we  sit  and  muse  and  are  serene  and  complete ;  but 
the  moment  we  meet  with  anybody,  each  becomes 
a  fraction. 

Though  the  stuff  of  tragedy  and  of  romances  is  in 
a  moral  union  of  two  superior  persons  whose  confi 
dence  in  each  other  for  long  years,  out  of  sight  and 
in  sight,  and  against  all  appearances,  is  at  last  jus 
tified  by  victorious  proof  of  probity  to  gods  and 
men,  causing  joyful  emotions,  tears  and  glory,— 
though  there  be  for  heroes  this  moral  union,  yet 
they  too  are  as  far  off  as  ever  from  an  intellectual 
union,  and  the  moral  union  is  for  comparatively 


SOCIETY  AND  SOLITUDE.  15 

low  and  external  purposes,  like  the  co-operation  of 
a  ship's  company  or  of  a  fire-club.  But  how  insu 
lar  and  pathetically  solitary  are  all  the  people  we 
know  !  Nor  dare  they  tell  what  they  think  of  each 
other  when  they  meet  in  the  street.  We  have  a 
fine  right,  to  be  sure,  to  taunt  men  of  the  world 
with  superficial  and  treacherous  courtesies  ! 

Such  is  the  tragic  necessity  which  strict  science 
finds  underneath  our  domestic  and  neighborly  life, 
irresistibly  driving  each  adult  soul  as  with  whips 
into  the  desert,  and  making  our  warm  covenants 
sentimental  and  momentary.  We  must  infer  that 
the  ends  of  thought  were  peremptory,  if  they  were 
to  be  secured  at  such  ruinous  cost.  They  are 
deeper  than  can  be  told,  and  belong  to  the  immen 
sities  and  eternities.  They  reach  down  to  that 
depth  where  society  itself  originates  and  disap 
pears  ;  where  the  question  is,  Which  is  first,  man  or 
men  ?  where  the  individual  is  lost  in  his  source. 

But  this  banishment  to  the  rocks  and  echoes  no 
metaphysics  can  make  right  or  tolerable.  This 
result  is  so  against  nature,  such  a  half- view,  that 
it  must  be  corrected  by  a  common  sense  and  expe 
rience.  "  A  man  is  born  by  the  side  of  his  father, 
and  there  he  remains."  A  man  must  be  clothed 
with  society,  or  we  shall  feel  a  certain  bareness 
rind  poverty,  rs  of  a  displaced  and  unfurnished 
member.  He  is  to  be  dressed  in  arts  and  institu- 


16  SOCIETY  AND  SOLITUDE. 

tions,  as  well  as  in  boclv-ffarments.     Now  and  then 

<U  O 

a  man  exquisitely  made  can  live  alone,  and  must ; 
but  coop  up  most  men  and  you  undo  them.  "  The 
king  lived  and  ate  in  his  hall  with  men,  and  under 
stood  men,"  said  Selden.  When  a  young  barrister 
said  to  the  late  Mr.  Mason,  "  I  keep  my  chamber 
to  read  law,"  —  "  Read  law  !  "  replied  the  veteran, 
"'tis  in  the  court-room  you  must  read  law."  Nor  is 
the  rule  otherwise  for  literature.  If  you  would 
learn  to  write,  'tis  in  the  street  you  must  learn  it. 
Both  for  the  vehicle  and  for  the  aims  of  fine  arts 
you  must  frequent  the  public  square.  The  people, 
and  not  the  college,  is  the  writer's  home.  A  scholar 
is  a  candle  which  the  love  and  desire  of  all  men 
will  light.  Never  his  lands  or  his  rents,  but  the 
power  to  charm  the  disguised  soul  that  sits  veiled 
under  this  bearded  and  that  rosy  visage  is  his  rent 
and  ration.  His  products  are  as  needful  as  those 
of  the  baker  or  the  weaver.  Society  cannot  do 
without  cultivated  men.  As  soon  as  the  first  wants 
are  satisfied,  the  higher  wants  become  imperative. 

'Tis  hard  to  mesmerize  ourselves,  to  whip  our 
own  top  :  but  through  sympathy  we  are  capable  of 
energy  and  endurance.  Concert  fires  people  to  a 
certain  fury  of  performance  they  can  rarely  reach 
alone.  <  Here  is  the  use  of  society :  it  is  so  easy 
with  the  great  to  be  great ;  so  easy  to  come  up  to 
an  existing  standard  ;  —  as  easy  as  it  is  to  the  lover 


SOCIETY  AND  SOLITUDE.  17 

to  swim  to  liis  maiden  through  waves  so  grim  be 
fore.  The  benefits  of  affection  are  immense;  and 
the  one  event  which  never  loses  its  romance  is  the 
encounter  with  superior  persons  on  terms  allowing 
the  happiest  intercourse. 

It  by  no  means  follows  that  we  are  not  fit  for 
society,  because  soh'tfcs  arc  tedious  and  because  the 
soiree  finds  us  tedious.  A  backwoodsman,  who 
had  been  sent  to  the  university,  told  me  that  when 
he  heard  the  best-bred  young  men  at  the  law-school 
talk  together,  he  reckoned  himself  a  boor ;  but 
whenever  he  caught  them  apart,  and  had  one  to 
himself  alone,  then  they  were  the  boors  and  he  the 
better  man.  And  if  we  recall  the  rare  hours  when 
we  encountered  the  best  persons,  we  then  found 
ourselves,  and  then  first  society  seemed  to  exist. 
That  was  society,  though  in  the  transom  of  a  brig 
or  on  the  Florida  Keys. 

A  cold  sluggish  blood  thinks  it  has  not  facts 
enough  to  the  purpose,  and  must  decline  its  turn  in 
the  conversation.  But  they  who  speak  have  no 
more,  —  have  less.  'T  is  not  new  facts  that  avail, 
but  the  heat  to  dissolve  everybody's  facts.  Heat 
puts  you  in  right  relation  with  magazines  of  facts. 
The  capital  defect  of  cold,  arid  natures  is  the  want 
of  animal  spirits.  They  seem  a  power  incredible, 
as  if  God  should  raise  the  dead.  The  recluse  wit 
nesses  what  others  perform  by  their  aid,  with  a 


18    .  SOCIETY  AXD  SOLITUDE. 

kind  of  fear.  It  is  as  much  out  of  his  possibility 
as  the  prowess  of  Coeur-de-Lion,  or  au  Irishman's 
day's-work  on  the  railroad.  'T  is  said  the  present 
and  the  future  are  always  rivals.  Animal  spirits 
constitute  the  power  of  the  present,  and  their  feats 
are  like  the  structure  of  a  pyramid.  Their  result 
is  a  lord,  a  general,  or  a  boon  companion.  Before 
these  what  a  base  mendicant  is  Memory  with  his 
leathern  badge !  But  this  genial  heat  is  latent  in 
all  constitutions,  and  is  disengaged  only  by  fhe 
friction  of  society.  As  Bacon  said  of  manners, 
"  To  obtain  them,  it  only  needs  not  to  despise 
them,"  so  we  say  of  animal  spirits  that  they  are 
the  spontaneous  product  of  health  and  of  a  social 
habit.  "  For  behavior,  men  learn  it,  as  they  take 
diseases,  one  of  another." 

But  the  people  are  to  be  taken  in  very  small 
doses.  If  solitude  is  proud,  so  is  society  vulgar. 
In  cociety,  high  advantages  are  set  down  to  the  in 
dividual  as  disqualifications.  We  sink  as  easily  as 
we  rise,  through  sympathy.  So  many  men  whom  I 
know  are  degraded  by  their  sympathies;  their  na 
tive  aims  being  high  enough,  but  their  relation  all 

O  o  o      ' 

too  tender  to  the  gross  people  about  them.  Men 
cannot  afford  to  live  together  on  their  merits,  and 
they  adjust  themselves  by  their  demerits,  —  by 
their  love  of  gossip,  or  by  sheer  tolerance  and  ani 
mal  good-nature.  They  untune  and  dissipate  the 
brave  aspirant. 


SOCIETY  AND  SOLITUDE.  19 

The  remedy  is  to  reinforce  each  of  these  moods 
from  the  other.  Conversation  will  not  corrupt  us 
if  we  come  to  the  assembly  in  oiir  own  garb  and 
speech  and  with  the  energy  of  health  to  select  what 
is  ours  and  reject  what  is  not.  Society  we  must 
have  ;  but  let  it  be  society,  and  not  exchanging 
news  or  eating  from  the  same  dish.  Is  it  society 
to  sit  in  one  of  your  chairs?  I  cannot  go  to  the 
houses  of  my  nearest  relatives,  because  I  do  not 
wish  to  be  alone.  Society  exists  by  chemical  affin 
ity,  and  not  otherwise. 

Put  any  company  of  people  together  with  free 
dom  for  conversation,  and  a  rapid  self-distribution 
takes  place  into  sets  and  pairs.  The  best  are  ac 
cused  of  exclusiveness.  It  would  be  more  true  to 
say  they  separate  as  oil  from  water,  as  children 
from  old  people,  without  love  or  hatred  in  the 
matter,  each  seeking  his  like ;  and  any  interference 
with  the  affinities  would,  produce  constraint  and 
suffocation.  All  conversation  is  a  magnetic  exper 
iment.  I  know  that  my  friend  can  talk  eloquently ; 
you  know  that  he  cannot  articulate  a  sentence  :  we 
have,  seen  him  in  different  company.  Assort  your 
party,  or  invite  none.  Put  Stubbs  and  Coleridge, 
Quintilian  and  Aunt  Miriam,  into  pairs,  and  you 
make  them  all  wretched.  ?T  is  an  extempore  Sing- 
Sing  built  in  a  parlor.  Leave  them  to  seek  their 
own  mates,  and  they  will  be  as  merry  as  sparrows. 


20  SOCIETY  AND  SOLITUDE. 

A  higher  civility  will  re-establish  in  our  customs 
a  certain  reverence  which  we  have  lost.  What  to 
do  with  these  brisk  young  men  who  break  through 
all  fences,  and  make  themselves  at  home  in  every 
house  ?  I  find  out  in  an  instant  if  my  companion 
does  not  want  me,  and  ropes  cannot  hold  me  when 
my  welcome  is  gone.  One  would  think  that  the 
affinities  would  pronounce  themselves  with  a  surer 
reciprocity. 

Here  again,  as  so  often,  Nature  delights  to  put 
us  between  extreme  antagonisms,  and  our  safety  is 
in  the  skill  with  which  we  keep  the  diagonal  line. 
Solitude  is  impracticable,  and  society  fatal.  We 
must  keep  our  head  in  the  one  and  our  hands  in 
the  other.  The  conditions  are  met,  if  we  keep  our 
independence,  yet  do  not  lose  our  sympathy.  These 
wonderful  horses  need  to  be  driven  by  fine  hands. 
We  require  such  a  solitude  as  shall  hold  us  to  its 
revelations  when  we  are  in  the  street  and  in  pal 
aces  ;  for  most  men  are  cowed  in  society,  and  say 
good  things  to  you  in  private,  but  will  not  stand  to 
them  in  public.  But  let  us  not  be  the  victims  of 
words.  Society  and  solitude  are  deceptive  names. 
It  is  not  the  circumstance  of  seeincf  more  or  fewer 

O 

people,  but  the  readiness  of  sympathy,  that  imports ; 
and  a  sound  mind  will  derive  its  principles  from 
insight,  with  ever  a  purer  ascent  to  the  sufficient 
and  absolute  right,  and  will  accept  society  as  the 
natural  element  in  which  they  are  to  be  applied. 


CIVILIZATION- 


CIVILIZATION. 


A  CERTAIN  degree  of  progress  from  the  rudest 
state  in  which  man  is  found,  —  a  dweller  in  caves, 
or  on  trees,  like  an  ape,  —  a  cannibal,  and  eater  of 
pounded  snails,  worms,  and  offal,  —  a  certain  de 
gree  of  progress  from  this  extreme  is  called  Civ 
ilization.  It  is  a  vague,  complex  name,  of  many 
degrees.  Nobody  has  attempted  a  definition.  Mr. 
Guizot,  writing  a  book  on  the  subject,  does  not.  It 
implies  the  evolution  of  a  highly  organized  man, 
brought  to  supreme  delicacy  of  sentiment,  as  in 
practical  power,  religion,  liberty,  sense  of  honor, 
and  taste.  In  the  hesitation  to  define  what  it  is, 
we  usually  suggest  it  by  negations.  A  nation  that 
has  no  clothing,  no  iron,  no  alphabet,  no  marriage, 
no  arts  of  peace,  no  abstract  thought,  we  call  bar 
barous.  And  after  many  arts  are  invented  or  im 
ported,  as  among  the  Turks  and  Moorish  nations, 
it  is  often  a  little  complaisant  to  call  them  civil 
ized. 

.   Each  nation  grows  after  its  own  genius,  and  has 
a  civilization  of  its  own.     The  Chinese  and  Japan- 


24  Cl  VI L IZA  TION. 

ese,  though  each  complete  in  his  way,  is  different 
from  the  man  of  Madrid  or  the  man  of  New  York. 
The  term  imports  a  mysterious  progress.  In  the 
brutes  is  none  ;  and  in  mankind  to-day  the  savage 
tribes  are  gradually  extinguished  rather  than  civil 
ized.  The  Indians  of  this  country  have  not  learned 
the  white  man's  work  ;  and  in  Africa  the  negro  of 
to-day  is  the  negro  of  Herodotus.  In  other  races 
the  growth  is  not  arrested,  but  the  like  progress 
that  is  made  by  a  boy  "  when  he  cuts  his  eye- 
teeth,"  as  we  say, —  childish  illusions  passing  daily 
away  and  he  seeing  things  really  and  comprehen 
sively, —  is  made  by  tribes.  It  is  the  learning  the 
secret  of  cumulative  power,  of  advancing  011  one's 
self.  It  implies  a  facility  of  association,  power  to 
compare,  the  ceasing  from  fixed  ideas.  The  Indian 
is  gloomy  and  distressed  when  urged  to  depart  from 
his  habits  and  traditions.  He  is  overpowered  by 
the  gaze  of  the  white,  and  his  eye  sinks.  The  oc 
casion  of  one  of  these  starts  of  growth  is  always 
some  novelty  that  astounds  the  mind  and  provfrkes 
it  to  dare  to  change.  Thus  there  is  a  Cadmus,  a 
Pytheas,  a  Manco  Capac  at  the  beginning  of  each 
improvement,  —  some  superior  foreigner  importing 
new  and  wonderful  arts,  and  teaching  them.  Of 
course  he  must  not  know  too  much,  but  must  have 
the  sympathy,  language,  and  gods  of  those  he 
would  inform.  But  chiefly  the  sea-shore  has  been 


CIVILIZATION.  25 

the  point  of  departure,  to  knowledge,  as  to  com 
merce.  The  most  advanced  nations  are  always 
those  who  navigate  the  most.  The  power  which 
the  sea  requires  in  the  sailor  makes  a  man  of  him 
very  fast,  and  the  change  of  shores  and  population 
clears  his  head  of  much  nonsense  of  his  wigwam. 
Where  shall  we  be<nn  or  end  the  list  of  those 

O 

feats  of  liberty  and  wit,  each  of  which  feats  made 
an  epoch  of  history  ?  Thus  the  effect  of  a  framed 
or  stone  house  is  immense  on  the  tranquillity,  power, 
and  refinement  of  the  builder.  A  man  in  a  cave 
O4r  in  a  camp,  a  nomad,  will  die  with  no  more  estate 
than  the  wolf  or  the  horse  leaves.  But  so  simple 
a  labor  as  a  house  being  achieved,  his  chief  enemies 
are  kept  at  bay.  He  is  safe  from  the  teeth  of  wild 
animals,  from  frost,  sun-stroke,  and  weather  ;  and 
fine  faculties  begin  to  yield  their  fine  harvest.  In 
vention  and  art  are  born,  manners  and  social  beauty 
and  delight.  !T  is  wonderful  how  soon  a  piano 
gets  into  a  log-hut  on  the  frontier.  You  would 
think  they  found  it  under  a  pine-stump.  With  it 
comes  a  Latin  grammar,  —  and  one  of  those  tow- 
head  boys  has  written  a  hymn  on  Sunday.  Now 
let  colleges,  now  let  senates  take  heed  \  for  here  is 
one  who  opening  these  fine  tastes  on  the  basis  of 
the  pioneer's  iron  constitution,  will  gather  all  their 
laurels  in  his  strong  hands. 

When  the  Indian  trail  gets  widened,  graded  and 


26  CIVILIZATION. 

bridged  to  a  good  road,  there  is  a  benefactor,  there 
is  a  missionary,  a  pacificator,  a  wealth-bringer,  a 
maker  of  markets,  a  vent  for  industry.  Another 
step  in  civility  is  the  change  from  war,  hunting,  and 
pasturage,  to  agriculture.  Our  Scandinavian  fore 
fathers  have  left  us  a  significant  legend  to  convey 
their  sense  of  the  importance  of  this  step.  "  There 
was  once  a  giantess  who  had  a  daughter,  and  the 
child  saw  a  husbandman  ploughing  in  the  field. 
Then  she  ran  and  picked  him  up  with  her  finger  and 
thumb,  and  put  him  and  his  plough  and  his  oxen 
into  her  apron,  and  carried  them  to  her  mother,  and 
said,  '  Mother,  what  sort  of  a  beetle  is  this  that  I 
found  wriggling  in  the  sand  ?  '  But  the  mother 
said,  '  Put  it  away,  my  child  ;  we  must  begone  out 
of  this  land,  for  these  people  will  dwell  in  it.'  ' 
Another  success  is  the  post-office,  with  its  educating 
energy  augmented  by  cheapness  and  guarded  by  a 
certain  religious  sentiment  in  mankind  ;  so  that  the 
power  of  a  wafer  or  a  drop  of  wax  or  gluten  to 
guard  a  letter,  as  it  flies  over  sea  over  land  and 
comes  to  its  address  as  if  a  battalion  of  artillery 
brought  it,  I  look  upon  as  a  fine  meter  of  civiliza 
tion. 

,  The  division  of  labor,  the  multiplication  of  the 
arts  of  peace,  which  is  nothing  but  a  large  allow 
ance  to  each  man  to  choose  his  work  according  to 

o 

his  faculty,  —  to  live  by  his  better  hand,  —  fills  the 


CI VI LIZ  A  TION.  2  T 

State  with  useful  and  happy  laborers ;  and  they, 
creating  demand  by  the  very  temptation  of  their 
productions,  are  rapidly  and  surely  rewarded  by 
good  sale  :  and  what  a  police  and  ten  command 
ments  their  work  thus  becomes.  So  true  is  Dr. 
Johnson's  remark  that  "  men  are  seldom  more  in 
nocently  employed  than  when  they  are  making 
money." 

The  skilful  combinations  of  civil  government, 
though  they  usually  follow  natural  leadings,  as  the 
lines  of  race,  language,  religion,  and  territory,  yet 
require  wisdom  and  conduct  in  the  rulers,  and  in 
their  result  delight  the  imagination.  "  We  see  in 
surmountable  multitudes  obeying,  in  opposition  to 
their  strongest  passions,  the  restraints  of  a  power 
which  they  scarcely  perceive,  and  the  crimes  of  a 
single  individual  marked  and  punished  at  the  dis 
tance  of  half  the  earth."  l 

Right  position  of  woman  in  the  State  is  another 
index.  Poverty  and  industry  with  a  healthy  mind 
read  very  easily  the  laws  of  humanity,  and  love 
them  :  place  the  sexes  in  right  relations  of  mutual 
respect,  and  a  severe  morality  gives  that  essential 
charm  to  woman  which  educates  all  that  is  delicate, 
poetic,  and  self  -  sacrificing  ;  breeds  courtesy  and 
learning,  conversation  and  wit,  in  her  rough  mate  ; 
so  that  I  have  thought  a  sufficient  measure  of  civil 
ization  is  the  influence  of  good  women. 
1  Dr.  Thomas  Brown. 


28  CIVILIZATION. 

Another  measure  of  culture  is  the  diffusion  of 
knowledge,  overrunning  all  the  old  barriers  of 
caste,  and,  by  the  cheap  press,  bringing  the  uni 
versity  to  every  poor  man's  door  in  the  newsboy's 
basket.  Scraps  of  science,  of  thought,  of  poetry  are 
in  the  coarsest  sheet,  so  that  in  every  house  we  hes 
itate  to  burn  a  newspaper  until  we  have  looked  it 
through. 

The  ship,  in  its  latest  complete  equipment,  is  an 
abridgment  and  compend  of  a  nation's  arts :  the 
ship  steered  by  compass  and  chart,  longitude  reck 
oned  by  lunar  observation  and  by  chronometer, 
driven  by  steam ;  and  in  wildest  sea-mountains,  at 
vast  distances  from  home, 

"  The  pulses  of  her  iron  heart 
Go  beating  through  the  storm." 

No  use  can  lessen  the  wonder  of  this  control  by  so 
weak  a  creature  of  forces  so  prodigious.  I  remem 
ber  I  watched,  in  crossing  the  sea,  the  beautiful 
skill  whereby  the  engine  in  its  constant  working 
was  made  to  produce  two  hundred  gallons  of  fresh 
water  out  of  salt  water,  every  hour,  —  thereby  sup 
plying  all  the  ship's  want. 

The  skill  that  pervades  complex  details  ;  the 
man  that  maintains  himself;  the  chimney  taught 
to  burn  its  own  smoke  ;  the  farm  made  to  produce 
all  that  is  consumed  on  it;  the  very  prison  com- 


CI VI LIZ  A  TION.  29 

pelled  to  maintain  itself  and  yield  a  revenue,  and, 
better  still,  made  a  reform  school  and  a  manufac 
tory  of  honest  men  out  of  rogues,  as  the  steamer 
made  fresh  water  out  of  salt,  —  all  these  are  ex 
amples  of  that  tendency  to  combine  antagonisms 
and  utilize  evil  which  is  the  index  of  high  civiliza 
tion. 

Civilization  is  the  result  of  highly  complex  organ 
ization.  In  the  snake,  all  the  organs  are  sheathed ; 
no  hands,  no  feet,  no  fins,  no  wings.  In  bird  and 
beast  the  organs  are  released  and  begin  to  play. 
In  man  they  are  all  unbound  and  full  of  joyful 
action.  With  this  unswaddling  he  receives  the 
absolute  illumination  we  call  Reason,  and  thereby 
true  liberty. 

Climate  has  much  to  do  with  this  melioration. 
The  highest  civility  has  never  loved  the  hot  zones. 
Wherever  snow  falls  there  is  usually  civil  freedom. 
Where  the  banana  grows  the  animal  system  is  indo 
lent  and  pampered  at  the  cost  of  higher  qualities : 
the  man  is  sensual  and  cruel.  But  this  scale  is 
not  invariable.  High  degrees  of  moral  sentiment 
control  the  unfavorable  influences  of  climate ;  and 
some  of  our  grandest  examples  of  men  and  of  races 
come  from  the  equatorial  regions,  —  as  the  genius 
of  Egypt,  of  India,  and  of  Arabia. 

These  feats  are  measures  or  traits  of  civility ; 
ani  temperate  climate  is  an  important  influence, 


30  CmLIZATION. 

though  not  quite  indispensable,  for  there  have  been 
learning,  philosophy  and  art  in  Iceland,  and  in  the 
tropics.  But  one  condition  is  essential  to  the  social 
education  of  man,  namely,  morality.  There  can 
be  no  high  civility  without  a  deep  morality,  though 
it  may  not  always  call  itself  by  that  name,  but 
sometimes  the  point  of  honor,  as  in  the  institution 
of  chivalry  ;  or  patriotism,  as  in  the  Spartan  and 
Roman  republics ;  or  the  enthusiasm  of  some  relig 
ious  sect  which  imputes  its  virtue  to  its  dogma  ;  or 
the  cabalism  or  esprit  de  corps  of  a  masonic  or 
other  association  of  friends. 

The  evolution  of  a  highly-destined  society  must 
be  moral ;  it  must  run  in  the  grooves  of  the  celes 
tial  wheels.  It  must  be  catholic  in  aims.  What 
is  moral  ?  It  is  the  respecting  in  action,  catholic 
or  universal  ends.  Hear  the  definition  which  Kant 
gives  of  moral  conduct :  u  Act  always  so  that  the 
immediate  motive  of  thy  will  may  become  a  uni 
versal  rule  for  all  intelligent  beings." 

Civilization  depends  on  morality.  Everything 
good  in  man  leans  on  what  is  higher.  This  rule 
holds  in  small  as  in  great.  Thus  all  our  strength 
and  success  in  the  work  of  our  hands  depend  on 
our  .borrowing  the  aid  of  the  elements.  You  have 
seen  a  carpenter  on  a  ladder  with  a  broad-axe  chop 
ping  upward  chips  from  a  beam.  How  awkward  ! 
at  what  disadvantage  he  works  !  But  see  him  on 


CIVILIZATION.  31 

the  ground,  dressing  his  timber  under  him.  Now, 
not  his  feeble  muscles  but  the  force  of  gravity 
brings  down  the  axe ;  that  is  to  say,  the  planet 
itself  splits  his  stick.  The  farmer  had  much  ill- 
temper,  laziness  and  shirking  to  endure  from  his 
hand-sawyers,  until  one  day  he  bethought  him  to 
put  his  saw-mill  on  the  edge  of  a  waterfall ;  and 
the  river  never  tires  of  turning  his  wheel ;  the  river 
is  good  natured,  and  never  hints  an  objection. 

We  had  letters  to  send:  couriers  could  not  go 
fast  enough  nor  far  enough  ;  broke  their  wagons, 
foundered  their  horses  ;  bad  roads  in  spring,  snow 
drifts  in  winter,  heats  in  summer ;  could  not  get 
the  horses  out  of  a  walk.  But  we  found  out  that 
the  air  and  earth  were  full  of  Electricity,  and  al 
ways  going  our  way,  —  just  the  way  we  wanted  to 
send.  Would  he  take  a  message  ?  Just  as  lief 
as  not ;  had  nothing  else  to  do  ;  would  carry  it  in 
no  time.  Only  one  doubt  occurred,  one  staggering 
objection,  —  he  had  no  carpet-bag,  no  visible  pock 
ets,  no  hands,  not  so  much  as  a  mouth,  to  carry  a 
letter.  But  after  much  thought  and  many  experi 
ments  we  managed  to  meet  the  conditions,  and  to 
fold  up  the  letter  in  such  invisible  compact  form  as 
he  could  carry  in  those  invisible  pockets  of  his, 
never  wrought  by  needle  and  thread,  —  and  it  went 
like  a  charm. 

I  admire  still  more  than  the  saw-mill  the  skill 


32  CIVILIZATION. 

which,  on  the  sea-shore,  makes  the  tides  drive  the 
wheels  and  grind  corn,  and  which  thus  engages  the 
assistance  of  the  moon,  like  a  hired  hand,  to  grind, 
and  wind,  and  pump,  and  saw,  and  split  stone,  and 
roll  iron. 

Now  that  is  the  wisdom  of  a  man,  in  every  in 
stance  of  his  labor,  to  hitch  his  wagon  to  a  star, 
and  see  his  chore  done  by  the  gods  themselves. 
That  is  the  way  we  are  strong,  by  borrowing  the 
might  of  the  elements.  The  forces  of  steam,  grav 
ity,  galvanism,  light,  magnets,  wind,  fire,  serve  us 
day  by  day  and  cost  us  nothing. 

Our  astronomy  is  full  of  examples  of  calling  in 
the  aid  of  these  magnificent  helpers.  Thus,  on  a 
planet  so  small  as  ours,  the  want  of  an  adequate 
base  for  astronomical  measurements  is  early  felt,  as, 
for  example,  in  detecting  the  parallax  of  a  star. 
But  the  astronomer,  having  by  an  observation  fixed 
the  place  of  a  star,  —  by  so  simple  an  expedient  as 
waiting  six  months  and  then  repeating  his  obser 
vation,  contrived  to  put  the  diameter  of  the  earth's 
orbit,  say  two  hundred  millions  of  miles,  between 
his  first  observation  and  his  second,  and  this  line 
afforded  him  a  respectable  base  for  his  triangle. 

All  our  arts  aim  to  win  this  vantage.  We  can 
not  bring  the  heavenly  powers  to  us,  but  if  we  will 
only  choose  our  jobs  in  directions  in  which  they 
travel,  they  will  undertake  them  with  the  greatest 


CIVILIZATION.  33 

pleasure.  It  is  a  peremptory  rule  with  them  that 
they  never  go  out  of  tJidr  road.  We  are  dapper 
little  busybodies  and  run  this  way  and  that  way 
superserviceably ;  but  they  swerve  never  from  their 
foreordained  paths,  —  neither  the  sun,  nor  the 
moon,  nor  a  bubble  of  air,  nor  a  mote  of  dust. 

And  as  our  handiworks  borrow  the  elements,  so 
all  our  social  and  political  action  leans  on  princi 
ples.  To  accomplish  anything  excellent  the  will 
must  work  for  catholic  and  universal  ends.  A 
puny  creature,  walled  in  on  every  side,  as  Daniel 
wrote,  — 

"  Unless  above  himself  he  can 
Erect  himself,  how  poor  a  thing  is  man  ! " 

but  when  his  will  leans  on  a  principle,  when  he  is 
the  vehicle  of  ideas,  he  borrows  their  omnipotence. 
Gibraltar  may  be  strong,  but  ideas  are  impregnable, 
and  bestow  on  the  hero  their  invincibility.  "  It 
was  a  great  instruction,"  said  a  saint  in  Cromwell's 
war,  "  that  the  best  courages  are  but  beams  of  the 
Almighty.1'  Hitch  your  wagon  to  a  star.  Let  us 
not  fag  in  paltry  works  which  serve  our  pot  and 
ba^  alone.  Let  us  not  lie  and  steal.  No  crod  will 

o  o 

help.  We  shall  find  all  their  teams  going  the  other 
v.  ay,  —  Charles's  Wain,  Great  Bear,  Orion,  Leo, 
Hercules:  every  god  will  leave  us.  Work  rather 
for  those  interests  which  the  divinities  honor  and 

VOL.    VII.  3 


34  CIVILIZATION. 

promote,  —  justice,  love,  freedom,  knowledge,  util- 
ity. 

If  we  can  thus  ride  in  Olympian  chariots  by  put 
ting  our  works  in  the  path  of  the  celestial  circuits, 
we  can  harness  also  evil  agents,  the  powers  of  dark 
ness,  and  force  them  to  serve  against  their  will  the 
ends  of  wisdom  and  virtue.  Thus  a  wise  govern 
ment  puts  fines  and  penalties  on  pleasant  vices. 
What  a  benefit  would  the  American  government, 
not  yet  relieved  of  its  extreme  need,  render  to  it- 
^self  and  to  every  city,  village,  and  hamlet  in  the 
States,  if  it  would  tax  whiskey  and  rum  almost  to 
the  point  of  prohibition !  Was  it  Bonaparte  who 
said  that  he  found  vices  very  good  patriots  ?  —  "  he 
got  five  millions  from  the  love  of  brandy,  and  he 
should  be  glad  to  know  which  of  the  virtues  would 
pay  him  as  much."  Tobacco  and  opium  have 
broad  backs,  and  will  cheerfully  carry  the  load  of 
armies,  if  you  choose  to  make  them  pay  high  for 
such  joy  as  they  give  and  such  harm  as  they  do. 

These  are  traits  and  measures  and  modes  ;  and 
the  true  test  of  civilization  is,  not  the  census,  nor 
the  size  of  cities,  nor  the  crops,  —  no,  but  the  kind 
of  man  the  country  turns  out.  I  see  the  vast  ad 
vantages  of  this  country,  spanning  the  breadth  of 
the  temperate  zone.  I  see  the  immense  material 
prosperity,  —  towns  on  towns,  states  on  states,  and 
wealth  piled  in  the  massive  architecture  of  cities  ; 


CI VILIZA  TION.  3  5 

California  quartz-mountains  dumped  down  in  New 
York  to  be  replied  architecturally  along-shore  from 
Canada  to  Cuba,  and  thence  westward  to  California 
again.  But  it  is  not  New  York  streets,  built  by  the 
confluence  of  workmen  and  wealth  of  all  nations, 
though  stretching  out  towards  Philadelphia  until 
they  touch  it,  and  northward  until  they  touch  New 
Haven,  Hartford,  Springfield,  Worcester,  and  Bos 
ton,  —  not  these  that  make  the  real  estimation. 
But  when  I  look  over  this  constellation  of  cities 
which  animate  and  illustrate  the  land,  and  see  how 
little  the  government  has  to  do  with  their  daily 
life,  how  self-helped  and  self-directed  all  families 
are,  —  knots  of  men  in  purely  natural  societies,  so 
cieties  of  trade,  of  kindred  blood,  of  habitual  hos 
pitality,  house  and  house,  man  acting  on  man  by 
weight  of  opinion,  of  longer  or  better-directed  in 
dustry  ;  the  refining  influence  of  women,  the  invi 
tation  which  experience  and  permanent  causes  open 
to  youth  and  labor  :  —  when  I  see  how  much  each 
virtuous  and  gifted  person,  whom  all  men  consider, 
lives  affectionately  with  scores  of  excellent  people 
who  are  not  known  far  from  home,  and  perhaps 
with  great  reason  reckons  these  people  his  supe 
riors  in  virtue  and  in  the  symmetry  and  force  of 
their  qualities,  —  I  see  what  cubic  values  America 
has,  and  in  these  a  better  certificate  of  civilization 
than  great  cities  or  enormous  wealth. 


36  CIVILIZATION. 

In  strictness,  the  vital  refinements  are  the  moral 
and  intellectual  steps.  The  appearance  of  the 
Hebrew  Moses,  of  the  Indian  Buddh  ;  in  Greece, 
of  the  Seven  Wise  Masters,  of  the  acute  and  up 
right  Socrates,  and  of  the  stoic  Zeno  ;  in  Judaea, 
the  advent  of  Jesus,  and,  in  modern  Christendom, 
of  the  realists  Hiiss,  Savonarola,  and  Luther,  — 
are  causal  facts  which  carry  forward  races  to  new 
convictions  and  elevate  the  rule  of  life.  In  the 
presence  of  these  agencies  it  is  frivolous  to  insist 
on  the  invention  of  printing  or  gunpowder,  of 
steam-power  or  gas-light,  percussion-caps  and  rub 
ber-shoes,  which  are  toys  thrown  off  from  that 
security,  freedom,  and  exhilaration  which  a  healthy 
morality  creates  in  society.  These  arts  add  a  com 
fort  and  smoothness  to  house  and  street  life  ;  but  a 
purer  morality,  which  kindles  genius,  civilizes  civi 
lization,  casts  backward  all  that  we  held  sacred  into 
the  profane,  as  the  flame  of  oil  throws  a  shadow 
when  shined  upon  by  the  flame  of  the  Bude-light. 
Not  the  less  the  popular  measures  of  progress  will 
ever  be  the  arts  and  the  laws. 

But  if  there  be  a  country  which  cannot  stand 
any  one  of  these  tests,  —  a  country  where  knowl 
edge  cannot  be  diffused  without  perils  of  mob-law 
and  statute-law ;  where  speech  is  not  free ;  where 
the  post-office  is  violated,  mail-bags  opened,  and 
letters  tampered  with ;  where  public  debts  and  pri 


CIVILIZATION.  37 

vate  debts  outside  of  the  State  are  repudiated ; 
where  liberty  is  attacked  in  the  primary  institu 
tion  of  social  life ;  where  the  position  of  the  white 
woman  is  injuriously  affected  by  the  outlawry  of 
the  black  woman  ;  where  the  arts,  such  as  they 
have,  are  all  imported,  having  no  indigenous  life ; 
where  the  laborer  is  not  secured  in  the  earnings  of 
his  own  hands  ;  where  suffrage  is  not  free  or  equal ; 
—  that  country  is,  in  all  these  respects,  not  civil,  but 
barbarous  ;  and  no  advantages  of  soil,  climate,  or 
coast  can  resist  these  suicidal  mischiefs. 

Morality  and  all  the  incidents  of  morality  are 
essential ;  as,  justice  to  the  citizen,  and  personal 
liberty.  Montesquieu  says :  "  Countries  are  well 
cultivated,  not  as  they  are  fertile,  but  as  they  are 
free;"  and  the  remark  holds  not  less  but  more 
true  of  the  culture  of  men,  than  of  the  tillage  of 
land.  And  the  highest  proof  of  civility  is  that  the 
whole  public  action  of  the  State  is  directed  on  se 
curing  the  greatest  good  of  the  greatest  number. 


ART. 


ART. 


ALL  departments  of  life  at  the  present  clay,  — 
Trade,  Politics,  Letters,  Science,  or  Religion,— 
seem  to  feel,  and  to  labor  to  express,  the  identity 
of  their  law.  They  are  rays  of  one  sun ;  they  trans 
late  each  into  a  new  language  the  sense  of  the 
other.  They  are  sublime  when  seen  as  emanations 
of  a  Necessity  contradistinguished  from  the  vulgar 
Fate  by  being  instant  and  alive,  and  dissolving 
man  as  well  as  his  works  in  its  flowing  beneficence. 
This  influence  is  conspicuously  visible  in  the  priu- 
ciples  and  history  of  Art. 

On  one  side  in  primary  communication  with 
absolute  truth  through  thought  and  instinct,  the 
human  mind  011  the  other  side  tends,  by  an  equal 
necessity,  to  the  publication  and  embodiment  of 
its  thought,  modified  and  dwarfed  by  the  impurity 
and  untruth  which  in  all  our  experience  injure  the 
individuality  through  which  it  passes.  The  child 
not  only  suffers,  but  cries ;  not  only  hungers,  but 
eats.  The  man  not  only  thinks,  but  speaks  and 
acts.  Every  thought  that  arises  in  the  mind,  in 
its  rising  aims  to  pass  out  of  the  mind  into  act; 


42  ART. 

just  as  every  plant,  in  the  moment  of  germination, 
struggles  up  to  light.  Thought  is  the  seed  of  ac 
tion  ;  but  action  is  as  much  its  second  form  as 
thought  is  its  first.  It  rises  in  thought,  to  the  end 
that  it  may  be  .uttered  and  acted.  The  more  pro 
found  the  thought,  the  more  burdensome.  Always 
in  proportion  to  the  depth  of  its  sense  does  it  knock 
importunately  at  the  gates  of  the  soul,  to  be  spoken, 
to  be  done.  What  is  in,  will  out.  It  struggles  to 
the  birth.  Speech  is  a  great  pleasure,  and  action  a 
great  pleasure ;  they  cannot  be  foreborne. 

The  utterance  of  thought  and  emotion  in  speech 
and  action  may  be  conscious  or  unconscious.  The 
sucking  child  is  an  unconscious  actor.  The  man  in 
an  ecstasy  of  fear  or  anger  is  an  unconscious  actor. 
A  large  part  of  our  habitual  actions  are  uncon 
sciously  done,  and  most  of  our  necessary  words 
are  unconsciously  said. 

The  conscious  utterance  of  thought,  by  speech 
or  action,  to  any  end,  is  Art.  From  the  first  imi 
tative  babble  of  a  child  to  the  despotism  of  elo 
quence  ;  from  his  first  pile  of  toys  or  chip  bridge 
to  the  masonry  of  Minot  Rock  Lighthouse  or  the 
Pacific  Railroad ;  from  the  tattooing  of  the  Owhy- 
hees  to  the  Vatican  Gallery  ;  from  the  simplest  ex 
pedient  of  private  prudence  to  the  American  Con 
stitution  ;  from  its  first  to  its  last  works,  Art  is  the 
spirit's  voluntary  use  and  combination  of  things  to 


ART.  43 

serve  its  end.  The  "Will  distinguishes  it  as  spirit 
ual  action.  Relatively  to  themselves,  the  bee,  the 
bird,  the  beaver,  have  no  art ;  for  what  they  do 
they  do  instinctively ;  but  relatively  to  the  Supreme 
Being1,  they  have.  And  the  same  is  true  of  all 
unconscious  action :  relatively  to  the  doer,  it  is  in 
stinct  ;  relatively  to  the  First  Cause,  it  is  Art.  In 
this  sense,  recognizing  the  Spirit  which  informs 
Nature,  Plato  rightly  said,  "  Those  things  which 
are  said  to  be  done  by  Nature  are  indeed  done  by 
Divine  Art."  Art,  universally,  is  the  spirit  crea 
tive.  It  was  defined  by  Aristotle,  "  The  reason  of 
the  thing,  without  the  matter." 

If  we  follow  the  popular  distinction  of  works 
according  to  their  aim,  we  should  say,  the  Spirit, 
in  its  creation,  aims  at  use  or  at  beauty,  and  hence 
Art  divides  itself  into  the  Useful  and  the  Fine  Arts. 

The  useful  arts  comprehend  not  only  those  that 
lie  next  to  instinct,  as  agriculture,  building,  weav 
ing,  &c.,  but  also  navigation,  practical  chemistry, 
and  the  construction  of  all  the  grand  and  delicate 
tools  and  instruments  by  which  man  serves  himself  : 
as  language,  the  watch,  the  ship,  the  decimal  ci 
pher  ;  and  also  the  sciences,  so  far  as  they  are 
made  serviceable  to  political  economy. 

When  we  reflect  on  the  pleasure  we  receive  from 
a  ship,  a  railroad,  a  dry-dock  ;  or  from  a  picture,  a 
dramatic  representation,  a  statue,  a  poem,  —  we  find 


44  ART. 

that  these  have  not  a  quite  simple,  but  a  blended 
origin.  We  find  that  the  question,  What  is  Art  ? 
leads  us  directly  to  another,  —  Who  is  the  Artist  ? 
And  the  solution  of  this  is  the  key  to  the  history  of 
irt. 

I  hasten  to  state  the  principle  which  prescribes, 
through  different  means,  its  firm  law  to  the  useful 
and  the  beautiful  arts.  The  law  is  this.  The  uni 
versal  soul  is  the  alone  creator  of  the  useful  and 
the  beautiful ;  therefore  to  make  anything  useful  or 
beautiful,  the  individual  must  be  submitted  to  the 
universal  mind. 

In  the  first  place  let  us  consider  this  in  reference 
to  the  useful  arts-.  Here  the  omnipotent  agent  is 
Nature;  all  human  acts  are  satellites  to  her  orb. 
Nature  is  the  representative  of  the  universal  mind, 
and  the  law  becomes  this,  —  that  Art  must  be  a 
complement  to  nature,  strictly  subsidiary.  It  was 
said,  in  allusion  to  the  great  structures  of  the 
ancient  Romans,  the  aqueducts  and  bridges,  that 
"  their  Art  was  a  Nature  working  to  municipal 
ends."  That  is  a  true  account  of  all  just  works 
of  useful  art.  Smeaton  built  Eddystone  Light 
house  on  the  model  of  an  oak-tree,  as  being  the 
form  in  nature  best  designed  to  resist  a  constant 
assailing  force.  Dollond  formed  his  achromatic 
telescope  on  the  model  of  the  human  eye.  Duhamel 
built  a  bridge  by  letting  in  a  piece  of  stronger  tim- 


ART.  45 

ber  for  the  middle  of  the  under  surface,  getting  his 
hint  from  the  structure  of  the  shin-bone. 

The  first  and  last  lesson  of  the  useful  arts  is  that 
Nature  tyrannizes  over  our  works.  They  must  be 
conformed  to  her  law,  or  they  will  be  ground  to 
powder  by  her  omnipresent  activity.  Nothing  droll, 
nothing  whimsical  will  endure.  Nature  is  ever  in 
terfering  with  Art.  You  cannot  build  your  house 
or  pagoda  as  you  will,  but  as  you  must.  There  is 
a  quick  bound  set  to  your  caprice.  The  leaning 
tower  can  only  lean  so  far.  The  verandah  or  pa 
goda  roof  can  curve  upward  only  to  a  certain  point. 
The  slope  of  your  roof  is  determined  by  the  weight 
of  snow.  It  is  only  within  narrow  limits  that  the 
discretion  of  the  architect  may  range :  gravity, 
wind,  sun,  rain,  the  size  of  men  and  animals,  and 
such  like,  have  more  to  say  than  he.  It  is  the  law 
of  fluids  that  prescribes  the  shape  of  the  boat,  — 
keel,  rudder,  and  bows,  —  and,  in  the  finer  fluid 
above,  the  form  and  tackle  of  the  sails.  Man  seems 
to  have  no  option  about  his  tools,  but  merely  the 
necessity  to  learn  from  Nature  what  will  fit  best, 
as  if  he  were  fitting  a  screw  or  a  door.  Beneath  a 
necessity  thus  almighty,  what  is  artificial  in  man's 
life  seems  insignificant.  Pie  seems  to  take  his  task 

O 

so  minutely  from  imitations  of  Nature,  that  his 
works  become  as  it  were  hers,  and  he  is  no  longer 
free. 


46  ART. 

But  if  we  work  within  this  limit,  she  yields  us 
all  her  strength.  All  powerful  action  is  performed 
by  bringing  the  forces  of  nature  to  bear  upon  our 
objects.  We  do  not  grind  corn  or  lift  the  loom  by 
our  own  strength,  but  we  build  a  mill  in  such 
position  as  to  set  the  north  wind  to  play  upon  our 
instrument,  or  the  elastic  force  of  steam,  or  the  ebb 
and  flow  of  the  sea.  So  in  our  handiwork,  we  do 
few  things  by  muscular  force,  but  we  place  our 
selves  in  such  attitudes  as  to  bring  the  force  of 
gravity,  that  is,  the  weight  of  the  planet,  to  bear 
upon  the  spade  or  the  axe  we  wield.  In  short,  in 
all  our  operations  we  seek  not  to  use  our  own,  but 
to  bring  a  quite  infinite  force  to  bear. 

Let  us  now  consider  this  law  as  it  affects  the 
works  that  have  beauty  for  their  end,  that  is,  the 
productions  of  the  Fine  Arts.  Here  again  the 
prominent  fact  is  subordination  of  man.  His  art 
is  the  least  part  of  his  work  of  art.  A  great  deduc 
tion  is  to  be  made  before  we  can  know  his  proper 
Contribution  to  it. 

Music,  Eloquence,  Poetry,  Painting,  Sculpture, 
Architecture.  This  is  a  rough  enumeration  of  the 
Fine  Arts.  I  omit  Rhetoric,  which  only  respects 
the  form  of  eloquence  and  poetry.  Architecture 
and  eloquence  are  mixed  arts,  whose  end  is  some 
times  beauty  and  sometimes  use. 

It  will  be  seen  that  in  each  of  these  arts  there  is 


ART.  47 

much  wliicli  is  not  spiritual.  Each  has  a  material 
basis,  and  in  each  the  creating  intellect  is  crippled 
in  some  degree  by  the  stuff  on  which  it  works. 
The  basis  of  poetry  is  language,  which  is  material 
only  011  one  side.  It  is  a  clemi-god.  But  being 
applied  primarily  to  the  common  necessities  of 
man,  it  is  not  new-created  by  the  poet  for  his  own 
ends. 

The  basis  of  music  is  the  qualities  of  the  air  and 
the  vibrations  of  sonorous  bodies.  The  pulsation 
of  a  stretched  string  or  wire  gives  the  ear  the  pleas 
ure  of  sweet  sound,  before  yet  the  musician  has 
enhanced  this  pleasure  by  concords  and  combina 
tions. 

Eloquence,  as  far  as  it  is  a  fine  art,  is  modified 
how  much  by  the  material  organization  of  the  ora 
tor,  the  tone  of  the  voice,  the  physical  strength,  the 
play  of  the  eye  and  countenance.  All  this  is  so 
much  deduction  from  the  purely  spiritual  pleasure, 
as  so  much  deduction  from  the  merit  of  Art,  and 
is  the  attribute  of  Nature. 

In  painting,  bright  colors  stimulate  the  eye  be 
fore  yet  they  are  harmonized  into  a  landscape.  In 
sculpture  and  in  architecture  the  material,  as  mar 
ble  or  granite,  and  in  architecture  the  mass,  are 
sources  of  great  pleasure  quite  independent  of  the 
artificial  arrangement.  The  art  resides  in  the 
model,  in  the  plan ;  for  it  is  on  that  the  genius  of 


48  ART. 

the  artist  is  expended,  not  on  the  statue  or  the  tem 
ple.  Just  as  much  better  as  is  the  polished  statue 
of  dazzling  marble  than  the  clay  model,  or  as  much 
more  impressive  as  is  the  granite  cathedral  or  pyr 
amid  than  the  ground-plan  or  profile  of  them  on 
paper,  so  much  more  beauty  owe  they  to  Nature 
than  to  Art. 

There  is  a  still  larger  deduction  to  be  made  from 

o 

the  genius  of  the  artist  in  favor  of  Nature  than  I 
have  yet  specified. 

A  jumble  of  musical  sounds  on  a  viol  or  a  flute, 
in  which  the  rhythm  of  the  tune  is  played  without 
one  of  the  notes  being  right,  gives  pleasure  to  the 
unskilful  ear.  A  very  coarse  imitation  of  the  hu 
man  form  on  canvas,  or  in  wax  -  work  ;  a  coarse 
sketch  in  colors  of  a  landscape,  in  which  imitation 
is  all  that  is  attempted,  —  these  things  give  to  un 
practised  eyes,  to  the  uncultured,  who  do  not  ask  a 
fine  spiritual  delight,  almost  as  much  pleasure  as  a 
statue  of  Canova  or  a  picture  of  Titian.  And  in 
the  statue  of  Canova  or  the  picture  of  Titian,  these 
give  the  great  part  of  the  pleasure ;  they  are  the 
basis  on  which  the  fine  spirit  rears  a  higher  de 
light,  but  to  which  these  are  indispensable. 

Another  deduction  from  the  genius  of  the  artist 
is  what  is  conventional  in  his  art,  of  which  there  is 
much  in  every  work  of  art.  Thus  how  much  is 
there  that  is  not  original  in  every  particular  build- 


ART.  49 

ing,  in  every  statue,  in  every  tune,  painting,  poem, 
or  harangue  !  —  whatever  is  national  or  usual ;  as 
the  usage  of  building  all  Roman  churches  in  the 
form  of  a  cross,  the  prescribed  distribution  of  parts 
of  a  theatre,  the  custom  of  draping  a  statue  in 
classical  costume.  Yet  who  will  deny  that  the 
merely  conventional  part  of  the  performance  con 
tributes  much  to  its  effect  ? 

One  consideration  more  exhausts  I  believe  all 
the  deductions  from  the  genius  of  the  artist  in  any 
given  work.  This  is  the  adventitious.  Thus  the 
pleasure  that  a  noble  temple  gives  us  is  only  in 
part  owing  to  the  temple.  It  is  exalted  by  the 
beauty  of  sunlight,  the  play  of  the  clouds,  the  land 
scape  around  it,  its  grouping  with  the  houses,  trees, 
and  towers  in  its  vicinity.  The  pleasure  of  elo 
quence  is  in  greatest  part  owing  often  to  the  stim 
ulus  of  the  occasion  which  produces  it,  —  to  the 
magic  of  sympathy,  which  exalts  the  feeling  of 
each  by  radiating  on  him  the  feeling  of  all. 

The  effect  of  music   belongs  how  much  to  the 

O 

place,  as  the  church,  or  the  moonlight  walk  ;  or  to 
the  company ;  or,  if  on  the  stage,  to  what  went  be 
fore  in  the  play,  or  to  the  expectation  of  what  shall 
come  after. 

In  poetry,  "  It  is  tradition  more  than  invention 
that  helps  the  poet  to  a  good  fable."  The  adven 
titious  beauty  of  poetry  may  be  felt  in  the  greater 


50  ART. 

delight  which  a  verse  gives  in  happy  quotation  than 
in  the  poem. 

It  is  a  curious  proof  of  our  conviction  that  the 
artist  does  not  feel  himself  to  be  the  parent  of  his 
work,  and  is  as  much  surprised  at  the  effect  as  we, 
that  we  are  so  unwilling  to  impute  our  best  sense  of 
any  work  of  art  to  the  author.  The  highest  praise 
we  can  attribute  to  any  writer,  painter,  sculptor, 
builder,  is,  that  he  actually  possessed  the  thought 
or  feeling  with  which  he  has  inspired  us.  We  hes 
itate  at  doing  Spenser  so  great  an  honor  as  to 
think  that  he  intended  by  his  allegory  the  sense  we 
affix  to  it.  We  grudge  to  Homer  the  wide  human 
circumspection  his  commentators  ascribe  to  him. 

Even  Shakspeare,  of  whom  we  can  believe  every 
thing,  we  think  indebted  to  Goethe  and  to  Cole 
ridge  for  the  wisdom  they  detect  in  his  Hamlet  and 
Antony.  Especially  have  we  this  infirmity  of  faith 
in  contemporary  genius.  We  fear  that  Allston 
and  Greenough  did  not  foresee  and  design  all  the 
effect  they  produce  on  us.  Our  arts  are  happy 
hits.  We  are  like  the  musician  011  the  lake,  whose 
melody  is  sweeter  than  he  knows,  or  like  a  trav 
eller  surprised  by  a  mountain  echo,  whoso  trivial 
word  returns  to  him  in  romantic  thunders. 

In  view  of  these  facts,  I  say  that  the  power  of 

-Nature  predominates   over  the  human  will  in  all 

works  of  e^en  the  fine  arts,  in  all  that  respects 


ART.  51 

their  material  and  external  circumstances.  Nature 
paints  the  best  part  of  the  picture,  carves  the  best 
part  of  the  statue,  builds  the  best  part  of  the  house, 
and  speaks  the  best  part  of  the  oration.  For  all 
the  advantages  to  which  I  have  adverted  are  such 
as  the  artist  did  not  consciously  produce.  He  re 
lied  011  their  aid,  he  put  himself  in  the  way  to  re 
ceive  aid  from  some  of  them ;  but  he  saw  that  his , 
planting  and  his  watering  waited  for  the  sunlight 
of  Nature,  or  were  vain. 

Let  us  proceed  to  the  consideration  of  the  law 
stated  in  the  beginning  of  this  essay,  as  it  affects 
the  purely  spiritual  part  of  a  work  of  art. 

As,  in  useful  art,  so  far  as  it  is  useful,  the  work 
must  be  strictly  subordinated  to  the  laws  of  Nature, 
so  as  to  become  a  sort  of  continuation  and  in  no 
wise  a  contradiction  of  Nature  ;  so  in  art  that  aims 
at  beauty  must  the  parts  be  subordinated  to  Ideal 
Nature,  and  everything  individual  abstracted,  so 
that  it  shall  be  the  production  of  the  universal 
soul.  The  artist  who  is  to  produce  a  work  which 
is  to  be  admired,  not  by  his  friends  or  his  towns 
people  or  his  contemporaries  but  by  all  men,  and 
which  is  to  be  more  beautiful  to  the  eye  in  propor 
tion  to  its  culture,  must  disindividualize  himself, 
and  be  a  man  of  no  party  and  no  manner  and  no 
age,  but  one  through  whom  the  soul  of  all  men  cir 
culates  as  the  common  air  through  his  lungs.  He 


52  ART. 

must  work  in  the  spirit  in  which  we  conceive  a 
prophet  to  speak,  or  an  angel  of  the  Lord  to  act ; 
that  is,  he  is  not  to  speak  his  own  words,  or  do  his 
own  works,  or  think  his  own  thoughts,  but  he  is 
to  be  an  organ  through  which  the  universal  mind 
acts. 

In  speaking  of  the  useful  arts,  I  pointed  to  the 
fact  that  we  do  not  dig,  or  grind,  or  hew,  by  our 
muscular  strength,  but  by  bringing  the  weight  of 
the  planet  to  bear  on  the  spade,  axe,  or  bar.  Pre 
cisely  analogous  to  this,  in  the  fine  arts,  is  the  man 
ner  of  our  intellectual  work.  We  aim  to  hinder 
our  individuality  from  acting.  So  much  as  we  can 
shove  aside  our  egotism,  our  prejudice  and  will, 
and  bring  the  omniscience  of  reason  upon  the  sub 
ject  before  us,  so  perfect  is  the  work.  The  won 
ders  of  Shakspeare  are  things  which  he  saw  whilst 
he  stood  aside,  and  then  returned  to  record  them. 
The  poet  aims  at  getting  observations  without  aim  ; 
to  subject  to  thought  things  seen  without  (volun 
tary)  thought. 

In  eloquence,  the  great  triumphs  of  the  art  are 
when  the-  orator  is  lifted  above  himself  ;  when  con 
sciously  he  makes  himself  the  mere  tongue  of  the 
occasion  and  the  hour,  and  says  what  cannot  but 
be  said.  Hence  the  term  abandonment,  to  describe 
the  self-surrender  of  the  orator.  Not  his  will,  but 
the  principle  on  which  he  is  horsed,  the  great  con- 


ART.  53 

nection  and  crisis  of  events,  thunder  in  the  ear  of 
the  crowd. 

In  poetry,  where  every  word  is  free,  every  word 
is  necessary.  Good  poetry  could  not  have  been 
otherwise  written  than  it  is.  The  first  time  you 
hear  it,  it  sounds  rather  as  if  copied  out  of  some 
invisible  tablet  in  the  Eternal  mind,  than  as  if  ar 
bitrarily  composed  by  the  poet.  The  feeling  of  all 
great  poets  has  accorded  with  this.  They  found 
the  verse,  not  made  it.  The  muse  brought  it  to 
them. 

In  sculpture,  did  ever  anybody  call  the  Apollo  a 
fancy  piece  ?  Or  say  of  the  Laocoon  how  it  might 
be  different  ?  A  masterpiece  of  art  has  in  the 
mind  a  fixed  place  in  the  chain  of  being,  as  much 
as  a  plant  or  a  crystal. 

The  whole  language  of  men,  especially  of  artists, 
in  reference  to  this  subject,  points  at  the  belief 
that  every  work  of  art,  in  proportion  to  its  excel 
lence,  partakes  of  the  precision  of  fate :  no  room 
was  there  for  choice,  no  play  for  fancy  ;  for  in  the 
moment  or  in  the  successive  moments  when  that 
form  was  seen,  the  iron  lids  of  Reason,  were  un 
closed,  which  ordinarily  are  heavy  with  slumber. 
The  individual  mind  became  for  the  moment  the 
vent  of  the  mind  of  humanity. 

There  is  but  one  Reason.  The  mind  that  made 
the  world  is  not  one  mind,  but  the  mind.  And 


54  ART. 

every  work  of  art  is  a  more  or  less  pure  manifesta 
tion  of  the  same.  Therefore  we  arrive  at  this  con 
clusion,  which  I  offer  as  a  confirmation  of  the  whole 
view,  that  the  delight  which  a  work  of  art  affords, 
seems  to  arise  from  our  recognizing  in  it  the  mind 
that  formed  Nature,  again  in  active  operation.  It 
differs  from  the  works  of  Nature  in  this,  that  they 
are  organically  reproductive.  This  is  not,  but 
spiritually  it  is  prolific  by  its  powerful  action  on 
the  intellects  of  men. 

Hence  it  follows  that  a  study  of  admirable  works 
of  art  sharpens  our  perceptions  of  the  beauty  of 
Nature ;  that  a  certain  analogy  reigns  throughout 
the  wonders  of  both  ;  that  the  contemplation  of  a 
work  of  great  art  draws  us  into  a  state  of  mind 
which  may  be  called  religious.  It  conspires  with 
all  exalted  sentiments. 

Proceeding  from  absolute  mind,  whose  nature  is 
goodness  as  much  as  truth,  the  great  works  are 
always  attuned  to  moral  nature.  If  the  earth  and 
sea  conspire  with  virtue  more  than  vice,  —  so  do  the 
masterpieces  of  art.  The  galleries  of  ancient  sculp 
ture  in  Naples  and  Rome  strike  no  deeper  convic 
tion  into  the  mind  than  the  contrast  of  the  purity, 
the  severity  expressed  in  these  fine  old  heads,  with 
the  frivolity  and  grossness  of  the  mob  that  exhibits 
and  the  mob  that  gazes  at  them.  These  are  the 
countenances  of  the  first-born,  —  the  face  of  man 


ART.  55 

in  the  morning  of  the  world.  No  mark  is  on  these 
lofty  features  of  sloth,  or  luxury,  or  meanness,  and 
they  surprise  you  with  a  moral  admonition,  as  they 
speak  of  nothing  around  you,  but  remind  you  of 
the  fragrant  thoughts  and  the  purest  resolutions  of 
your  youth. 

Herein  is  the  explanation  of  the  analogies  which 
exist  in  all  the  arts.  They  are  the  reappearance  of 
one  mind,  working  in  many  materials  to  many  tem 
porary  ends.  Raphael  paints  wisdom,  Handel  sings 
it,  Phidias  carves  it,  Shakspeare  writes  it,  Wren 
"builds  it,  Columbus  sails  it,  Luther  preaches  it, 
Washington  arms  it,  Watt  mechanizes  it.  Paint 
ing  was  called  "  silent  poetry,  "  and  poetry  "speak 
ing  painting."  The  laws  of  each  art  are  convert 
ible  into  the  laws  of  every  other. 

Herein  we  have  an  explanation  of  the  necessity 
that  reigns  in  all  the  kingdom  of  Art.  Arising  out 
of  eternal  Reason,  one  and  perfect,  whatever  is 
beautiful  rests  on  the  foundation  of  the  necessary. 
Nothing  is  arbitrary,  nothing  is  insulated  in  beauty. 
It  depends  forever  on  the  necessary  and  the  useful. 
The  plumage  of  the  bird,  the  mimic  plumage  of  the 
insect,  has  a  reason  for  its  rich  colors  in  the  consti 
tution  of  the  animal.  Fitness  is  so  inseparable  an 
accompaniment  of  beauty,  that  it  has  been  taken  for 
it.  The  most  perfect  form  to  answer  an  end  is  so 
far  beautiful.  We  feel,  in  seeing  a  noble  building, 


56  ART. 

which  rhymes  well,  as  we  do  in  hearing  a  perfect 
song,  that  it  is  spiritually  organic ;  that  is,  had  a 
necessity,  in  nature,  for  being ;  was  one  of  the  pos 
sible  forms  in  the  Divine  mind,  and  is  now  only 
discovered  and  executed  by  the  artist,  not  arbitra 
rily  composed  by  him. 

And  so  every  genuine  work  of  art  has  as  much 
reason  for  being  as  the  earth  and  the  sun.  The 
gayest  charm  of  beauty  has  a  root  in  the  constitu 
tion  of  things.  The  Iliad  of  Homer,  the  songs  of 
David,  the  odes  of  Pindar,  the  tragedies  of  JEschy- 
1ns,  the  Doric  temples,  the  Gothic  cathedrals,  the 
plays  of  Shakspeare,  all  and  each  were  made  not 
for  sport  but  in  grave  earnest,  in  tears  and  smiles 
of  suffering  and  loving  men. 

Viewed  from  this  point  the  history  of  Art  be 
comes  intelligible,  and  moreover  one  of  the  most 
agreeable  studies.  ~VTe  see  how  each  work  of  art 
sprang  irresistibly  from  necessity,  and,  moreover, 
took  its  form  from  the  broad  hint  of  Nature.  Beau 
tiful  in  this  wise  is  the  obvious  origin  of  all  the 
known  orders  of  architecture ;  namely,  that  they 
were  the  idealizing  of  the  primitive  abodes  of  each 
people.  There  was  no  wilfulness  in  the  savages  in 
this  perpetuating  of  their  first  rude  abodes.  The 
first  form  in  which  they  built  a  house  would  be  the 
first  form  of  their  public  and  religious  edifice  also. 
This  form  becomes  immediately  sacred  in  the  eyes 


ART.  57 

of  their  children,  and  as  more  traditions  cluster 
round  it,  is  imitated  with  more  splendor  in  each 
succeeding  generation. 

In  like  manner  it  has  been  remarked  by  Goethe 
that  the  granite  breaks  into  parallelepipeds,  which 
broken  in  two,  one  part  would  be  an  obelisk ;  that 
in  Upper  Egypt  the  inhabitants  would  naturally 
mark  a  memorable  spot  by  setting  up  so  conspicu 
ous  a  stone.  Again,  he  suggested,  we  may  see  in 
any  stone  wall,  on  a  fragment  of  rock,  the  project 
ing  veins  of  harder  stone  which  have  resisted  the 
action  of  frost  and  water  which  has  decomposed 
the  rest.  This  appearance  certainly  gave  the  hint 
of  the  hieroglyphics  inscribed  on  their  obelisk.  The 
amphitheatre  of  the  old  Romans,  —  any  one  may 
see  its  origin  who  looks  at  the  crowd  running  to 
gether  to  see  any  fight,  sickness,  or  odd  appearance 
in  the  street.  The  first  comers  gather  round  in  a 
circle,  those  behind  stand  on  tiptoe,  and  farther 
back  they  climb  on  fences  or  window-sills,  and  so 
make  a  cup  of  which  the  object  of  attention  occu 
pies  the  hollow  area.  The  architect  put  benches 
in  this,  and  enclosed  the  cup  with  a  wall,  —  and  be 
hold  a  Coliseum ! 

It  would  be  easy  to  show  of  many  fine  things  in 
the  world,  —  in  the  customs  of  nations,  the  etiquette 
of  courts,  the  constitution  of  governments,  —  the 
origin  in  quite  simple  local  necessities.  Heraldry 


58  ART. 

for  example,  and  the  ceremonies  of  a  coronation,  are 
a  dignified  repetition  of  the  occurrences  that  might 
befall  a  dragoon  and  his  footboy.  The  College 
of  Cardinals  were  originally  the  parish  priests  of 
Rome.  The  leaning  towers  originated  from  the 
civil  discords  which  induced  every  lord  to  build  a 
tower.  Then  it  became  a  point  of  family  pride,  — 
find  for  more  pride  the  novelty  of  a  leaning  tower 
was  built. 

This  strict  dependence  of  Art  upon  material  and 
ideal  Nature,  this  adamantine  necessity  which  un 
derlies  it,  has  made  all  its  past  and  may  foreshow 
Its  future  history.  It  never  was  in  the  power  of 
any  man  or  any  community  to  call  the  arts  into 
being.  They  come  to  serve  his  actual  wants,  never 
to  please  his  fancy.  These  arts  have  their  origin 
always  in  some  enthusiasm,  as  love,  patriotism, 
or  religion.  Who  carved  marble  ?  Tho  believing 
man,  who  wished  to  symbolize  their  gods  to  the 
waiting  Greeks. 

The  Gothic  cathedrals  were  built  when  the 
builder  and  the  priest  and  the  people  were  over 
powered  by  their  faith.  Love  and  fear  laid  every 
stone.  The  Madonnas  of  Raphael  and  Titian  were 
made  to  be  worshipped.  Tragedy  was  instituted 
for  the  like  purpose,  and  the  miracles  of  music :  all 
sprang  out  of  some  genuine  enthusiasm,  and  never 
out  of  dilettanteism  and  holidays.  Now  they  Ian- 


ART.  59 

guish,  because  their  purpose  is  merely  exliibition. 
Who  cares,  who  knows  what  works  of  art  our  gov 
ernment  have  ordered  to  be  made  for  the  Capitol  ? 
They  are  a  mere  flourish  to  please  the  eye  of  per 
sons  who  have  associations  with  books  and  galler 
ies.  But  in  Greece,  the  Demos  of  Athens  divided 
into  political  factions  upon  the  merits  of  Phidias. 

In  this  country,  at  this  time,  other  interests  than 
religion  and  patriotism  are  predominant,  and  the 
arts,  the  daughters  of  enthusiasm,  do  not  flourish. 
The  genuine  offspring  of  our  ruling  passions  we 
behold.  Popular  institutions,  the  school,  the  read 
ing-room,  the  telegraph,  the  post-office,  the  ex 
change,  the  insurance-company,  and  the  immense 
harvest  of  economical  inventions,  are  the  fruit  of 
the  equality  and  the  boundless  liberty  of  lucrative 
callings.  These  are  superficial  wants ;  and  their 
fruits  are  these  superficial  institutions.  But,  as  far 
as  they  accelerate  the  end  of  political  freedom  and 
national  education,  they  are  preparing  the  soil  of 
man  for  fairer  flowers  and  fruits  in  another  age. 
For  beauty,'  truth,  and  goodness  are  not  obsolete  ; , 
they  spring  eternal  in  the  breast  of  man  ;  they  are 
as  indigenous  in  Massachusetts  as  in  Tuscany  or 
the  Isles  of  Greece.  And  that  Eternal  Spirit  whoso 
triple  face  they  are,  moulds  from  them  forever,  for 
his  mortal  child,  images  to  remind  him  of  the  In 
finite  and  Fair. 


ELOQUENCE. 


ELOQUENCE. 


IT  is  the  doctrine  of  the  popular  music-masters 
that  whoever  can  speak  can  sing.  So  probably 
every  man  is  eloquent  once  in  his  life.  Our  tem 
peraments  differ  in  capacity  of  heat,  or,  we  boil  at 
different  degrees.  One  man  is  brought  to  the  boil 
ing-point  by  the  excitement  of  conversation  in  the 
parlor.  The  waters,  of  course,  are  not  very  deep. 
He  has  a  two-inch  enthusiasm,  a  patty-pan  ebulli 
tion.  Another  requires  the  additional  caloric  of 
a  multitude  and  a  public  debate  ;  a  third  needs  an 
antagonist,  or  a  hot  indignation  ;  a  fourth  needs  a 
Devolution  ;  and  a  fifth,  nothing  less  than  the  grand 
eur  of  absolute  ideas,  the  splendors  and  shades  of 
Heaven  and  Hell. 

But,  because  every  man  is  an  orator,  how  long 
soever  he  may  have  been  a  mute,  an  assembly  of 
men  is  so  much  more  susceptible.  The  eloquence 
of  one  stimulates  all  the  rest,  some  up  to  the  speak 
ing-point  and  all  others  to  a  degree  that  makes 
them  good  receivers  and  conductors,  and  they 
avenge  themselves  for  their  enforced  silence  by  in 
creased  loquacity  on  their  return  to  the  fireside. 


64  ELOQUENCE. 

The  plight  of  these  phlegmatic  brains  is  better 
than  that  of  those  who  prematurely  boil,  and  who 
impatiently  break  silence  before  their  time.  Our 
county  conventions  often  exhibit  a  small-pot-soon- 
hot  style  of  eloquence.  We  are  too  much  reminded 
of  a  medical  experiment  where  a  series  of  patients 
are  taking  nitrous-oxide  gas.  Each  patient  in  turn 
exhibits  similar  symptoms,  —  redness  in  the  face, 
volubility,  violent  gesticulation,  delirious  attitudes, 
occasional  stamping,  an  alarming  loss  of  perception 
of  the  passage  of  time,  a  selfish  enjoyment  of  his 
sensations,  and  loss  of  perception  of  the  sufferings 
of  the  audience. 

Plato  says  that  the  punishment  which  the  wise 
suffer  who  refuse  to  take  part  in  the  government, 
is,  to  live  under  the  government  of  worse  men ; 
and  the  like  regret  is  suggested  to  all  the  auditors, 
as  the  penalty  of  abstaining  to  speak,  —  that  they 
shall  hear  worse  orators  than  themselves. 

But  this  lust  to  speak  marks  the  universal  feel 
ing  of  the  energy  of  the  engine,  and  the  curiosity 
men  feel  to  touch  the  springs.  Of  all  the  musical 
instruments  on  which  men  play,  a  popular  assembly 
is  that  which  has  the  largest  compass  and  variety, 
and  out  of  which,  by  genius  and  study,  the  most 
wonderful  effects  can  be  drawn.  An  audience  is 
not  a  simple  addition  of  the  individuals  that  com 
pose  it.  Their  sympathy  gives  them  a  certain  so- 


ELOQUENCE.  65 

cial  organism,  which  fills  each  member,  in  his  own 
degree,  and  most  of  all  the  orator,  as  a  jar  in  a 
battery  is  charged  with  the  whole  electricity  of  the 
battery.  No  one  can  survey  the  face  of  an  excited 
assembly,  without  being  apprised  of  new  opportu 
nity  for  painting  in  fire  human  thought,  and  being 
agitated  to  agitate.  How  many  orators  sit  mute 
there  below  !  They  come  to  get  justice  done  to 
that  ear  and  intuition  which  no  Chatham  and  no 
Demosthenes  has  begun  to  satisfy. 

The  Welsh  Triads  say,  "Many  are  the  friends  of 
the  golden  tongue."  Who  can  wonder  at  the  at 
tractiveness  of  Parliament,  or  of  Congress,  or  the 
bar,  for  our  ambitious  young  men,  when  the  highest 
bribes  of  society  are  at  the  feet  of  the  successful 
orator?  He  has  his  audience  at  his  devotion.  All 
other  fames  must  hush  before  his.  He  is  the  true 
potentate ;  for  they  are  not  kings  who  sit  on  thrones, 
but  they  who  know  how  to  govern.  The  definitions 
of  eloquence  describe  its  attraction  for  young  men. 
Antiphon  the  Rhamnusian,  one  of  Plutarch's  ten 
orators,  advertised  in  Athens  "  that  he  would  cure 
distempers  of  the  mind  with  words."  No  man  has 
a  prosperity  so  high  or  firm  but  two  or  three  words 
can  dishearten  it.  There  is  no  calamity  which 
right  words  will  not  begin  to  redress.  Isocrates 
described  his  art  as  "  the  power  of  magnifying 
what  was  small  and  diminishing  what  was  great," 

VOL.  VII.  5 


66  ELOQUENCE. 

—  an  acute  but  partial  definition.  Among  the 
Spartans,  the  art  assumed  a  Spartan  shape,  namely, 
of  the  sharpest  weapon.  Socrates  says :  "  If  any 
one  wishes  to  converse  with  the  meanest  of  the 
Lacedaemonians,  he  will  at  first  find  him  despica 
ble  in  conversation,  but  when  a  proper  opportunity 
offers,  this  same  person,  like  a  skilful  jaculator, 
will  hurl  a  sentence  worthy  of  attention,  short  and 
contorted,  so  that  he  who  converses  with  him  will 
appear  to  be  in  no  respect  superior  to  a  boy." 
Plato's  definition  of  rhetoric  is,  "  the  art  of  ruling 
the  minds  of  men."  The  Koran  says,  "A  mountain 
may  change  its  place,  but  a  man  will  not  change 
his  disposition  ;  "  yet  the  end  of  eloquence  is,  —  is 
it  not  ?  —  to  alter  in  a  pair  of  hours,  perhaps  in  a 
half-hours'  discourse,  the  convictions  and  habits  of 
years.  Young  men,  too,  are  eager  to  enjoy  this 
sense  of  added  power  and  enlarged  sympathetic 
existence.  The  orator  sees  himself  the  organ  of 
a  multitude,  and  concentrating  their  valors  and 
powers  :  — 

"  But  now  the  blood  of  twenty  thousand  men 
Blushed  in  my  face." 

That  which  lie  wishes,  that  which  eloquence  ought 
to  reach,  is  not  a  particular  skill  in  telling  a  story, 
or  neatly  summing  up  evidence,  or  arguing  logically, 
or  dexterously  addressing  the  prejudice  of  the  com 
pany,  —  no,  but  a  taking  sovereign  possession  of 


ELOQUENCE.  67 

the  audience.  Him  we  call  an  artist  who  shall 
play  on  an  assembly  of  men  as  a  master  on  the. 
keys  of  the  piano,  —  who,  seeing  the  people  furious, 
shall  soften  and  compose  them,  shall  draw  them, 
when  he  will,  to  laughter  and  to  tears.  Bring  him 
to  his  audience,  and,  be  they  who  they  may,  — 
coarse  or  refined,  pleased  or  displeased,  sulky  or 
savage,  with  their  opinions  in  the  keeping  of  a  con 
fessor,  or  with  their  opinions  in  their  bank-safes, 
—  he  will  have  them  pleased  and  humored  as,  he 
chooses ;  and  they  shall  carry  and  execute  that 
which  he  bids  them. 

This  is  that  despotism  which  poets  have  cele 
brated  in  the  "  Pied  Piper  of  Hameliii,"  whose 
music  drew  like  the  power  of  gravitation,  —  drew 
soldiers  and  priests,  traders  and  feasters,  women 
and  boys,  rats  and  mice  ;  or  that  of  the  minstrel  of 
Meudon,  who  made  the  pall-bearers  dance  around 
the-  bier.  This  is  a  power  of  many  degrees  and 
requiring  in  the  orator  a  great  range  of  faculty  and 
experience,  requiring  a  large  composite  man,  such 
as  Nature  rarely  organizes  :  so  that  in  our  experi 
ence  we  are  forced  to  gather  up  the  figure  in  frag 
ments,  here  one  talent  and  there  another. 

The  audience  is  a  constant  meter  of  the  orator. 
There  are  many  audiences  in  every  public  assembly, ' 
each  one  of  which  rules  in  turn.    If  anything  comic 
and  coarse  is  spoken,  you  shall  see  the  emergence 


68  ELOQUENCE. 

of  the  boys  and  rowdies,  so  loud  and  vivacious  that 
you  might  think  the  house  was  filled  with  them. 
If  new  topics  are  started,  graver  and  higher,  these 
roisters  recede ;  a  more  chaste  and  wise  attention 
takes  place.  You  would  think  the  boys  slept,  and 
that  the  men  have  any  degree  of  profoundness.  If 
the  speaker  utter  a  noble  sentiment,  the  attention 
deepens,  a  new  and  highest  audience  now  listens, 
and  the  audiences  of  the  fun  and  of  facts  and 
of  the  understanding  are  all  silenced  and  awed. 
There  is  also  something  excellent  in  every  audi 
ence,  —  the  capacity  of  virtue.  They  are  ready  to 
be  beatified.  They  know  so  much  more  than  the 
orator,  —  and  are  so  just !  There  is  a  tablet  there 
for  every  line  he  can  inscribe,  though  he  should 
mount  to  the  highest  levels.  Humble  persons  are 
conscious  of  new  illumination  ;  narrow  brows  ex 
pand  with  enlarged  affections  ;  —  delicate  spirits, 
long  unknown  to  themselves,  masked  and  muffled 
in  coarsest  fortunes,  who  now  hear  their  own  native 
language  for  the  first  time,  and  leap  to  hear  it. 
But  all  these  several  audiences,  each  above  each, 
which  successively  appear  to  greet  the  variety  of 
style  and  topic,  are  really  composed  out  of  the 
same  persons  ;  nay,  sometimes  the  same  individual 
will  take  active  part  in  them  all,  in  turn. 

This  range  of  many  powers  in  the  consummate 
speaker,  and  of  many  audiences  in  one  assembly, 
leads  us  to  consider  the  successive  stages  of  oratory. 


ELOQUENCE.  69 

Perhaps  it  is  the  lowest  of  the  qualities  of  an 
orator,  but  it  is,  on  so  many  occasions,  of  chief  im 
portance,  —  a  certain  robust  and  radiant  physical 
health;  or,  —  shall  I  say? — great  volumes  of  animal 
heat.  When  each  auditor  feels  himself  to  make 
too  large  a  part  of  the  assembly,  and  shudders  with 
cold  at  the  thinness  of  the  morning  audience,  and 
with  fear  lest  all  will  heavily  fail  through  one  bad 
speech,  mere  energy  and  mellowness  are  then  in 
estimable.  Wisdom  and  learning  would  be  harsh 
and  unwelcome,  compared  with  a  substantial  cordial 
man,  made  of  milk  as  we  say,  who  is  a  house- 
warmer,  with  his  obvious  honesty  and  good  mean 
ing,  and  a  hue-and-cry  style  of  harangue,  which 
inundates  the  assembly  with  a  flood  of  animal 
spirits,  and  makes  all  safe  and  secure,  so  that  any 
and  every  sort  of  good  speaking  becomes  at  once 
practicable.  I  do  not  rate  this  animal  eloquence 
very  highly ;  and  yet,  as  we  must  be  fed  and 
warmed  before  we  can  do  any  work  well,  —  even 
the  best,  —  so  is  this  semi-animal  exuberance,  like 
a  good  stove,  of  the  first  necessity  in  a  cold  house. 

Climate  has  much  to  do  with  it,  —  climate  and 
race.  Set  a  New-Englander  to  describe  any  acci 
dent  which  happened  in  his  presence.  What  hesi 
tation  and  reserve  in  his  narrative  !  He  tells  with 
difficulty  some  particulars,  and  gets  as  fast  as  he 
can  to  the  result,  and,  though  he  cannot  describe, 


70  ELOQUENCE. 

hopes  to  suggest  the  whole  scene.  Now  listen  to 
a  poor  Irishwoman  recounting  some  experience  of 
hers.  Her  speech  flows  like  a  river,  —  so  uncon- 
siclered,  so  humorous,  so  pathetic,  such  justice  done 
to  all  the  parts !  It  is  a  true  transubstantiation,  — 
the  fact  converted  into  speech,  all  warm  and  colored 
and  alive,  as  it  fell  out.  Our  Southern  people  are 
almost  all  speakers,  and  have  every  advantage  over 
the  New  England  people,  whose  climate  is  so  cold 
that  't  is  said  we  do  not  like  to  open  our  mouths 
very  wide.  But  neither  can  the  Southerner  in  the 
United  States,  nor  the  Irish,  compare  with  the 
lively  inhabitant  of  the  south  of  Europe.  The 
traveller  in  Sicily  needs  no  gayer  melodramatic 
exhibition  than  the  table  d'hote  of  his  inn  will  af 
ford  him  in  the  conversation  of  the  joyous  guests. 
They  mimic  the  voice  and  manner  of  the  person 
they  describe;  they  crow,  squeal,  hiss,  cackle,  bark, 
and  scream  like  mad,  and,  were  it  only  by  the  phys 
ical  strength  exerted  in  telling  the  story,  keep  the 
table  in  unbounded  excitement.  But  in  every  con 
stitution  some  large  degree  of  animal  vigor  is  neces 
sary  as  material  foundation  for  the  higher  qualities 
of  the  art. 

But  eloquence  must  be  attractive,  or  it  is  none. 
The  virtue  of  books  is  to  be  readable,  and  of  ora 
tors  to  be  interesting  ;  and  this  is  a  gift  of  Nature ; 
as  Demosthenes,  the  most  laborious  student  in  that 


. 

ELOQUENCE. 

kind,  signified  his  sense  of  this  necessity  wl 
wrote,  "  Good  Fortune,"  as  his  motto  on  his  shield. 
As  we  know,  the  power  of  discourse  of  certain  in 
dividuals  amounts  to  fascination,  though  it  may 
have  no  lasting  effect.  Some  portion  of  this  sugar 
must  intermingle.  The  right  eloquence  needs  no 
bell  to  call  the  people  together,  and  no  constable  to 
keep  them.  It  draws  the  children  from  their  play, 
the  old  from  their  arm-chairs,  the  invalid  from  his 
warm  chamber  :  it  holds  the  hearer  fast ;  steals 
away  his  feet,  that  he  shall  not  depart ;  his  mem 
ory,  that  he  shall  not  remember  the  most  pressing 
affairs ;  his  belief,  that  he  shall  not  admit  any 
opposing  considerations.  The  pictures  we  have  of 
it  in  semi-barbarous  ages,  when  it  has  some  advan 
tages  in  the  simpler  habit  of  the  people,  show  what 
it  aims  at.  It  is  said  that  the  Khans  or  story-tell 
ers  in  Ispahan  and  other  cities  of  the  East,  attain 
a  controlling  power  over  their  audience,  keeping 
them  for  many  hours  attentive  to  the  most  fanci 
ful  and  extravagant  adventures.  The  whole  world 
knows  pretty  well  the  style  of  these  improvisators, 
and  how  fascinating  they  are,  in  our  translations  of 
the  "  Arabian  Nights."  Scheherezade  tells  these 
stories  to  save  her  life,  and  the  delight  of  young 
Europe  and  young  America  in  them  proves  that 
she  fairly  earned  it.  And  who  does  not  remember 
in  childhood  some  white  or  black  or  yellow  Sche- 


72  ELOQUENCE. 

herezade,  who,  by  that  talent  of  telling  endless  feats 
of  fairies  and  magicians  and  kings  and  queens,  was 
more  dear  and  wonderful  to  a  circle  of  children 
than  any  orator  in  England  or  America  is  now  ? 
The  more  indolent  and  imaginative  complexion  of 
the  Eastern  nations  makes  them  much  more  im 
pressible  by  these  appeals  to  the  fancy. 

These  legends  are  only  exaggerations  of  real  oc 
currences,  and  every  literature  contains  these  high 
compliments  to  the  art  of  the  orator  and  the  bard, 
from  the  Hebrew  and  the  Greek  down  to  the  Scot 
tish  Glenkindie,  who 

"  harp  it  a  fish  out  o'  saut- water, 
Or  water  out  of  a  stone, 
Or  milk  out  of  a  maiden's  breast 
Who  bairn  had  never  none." 

Homer  specially  delighted  in  drawing  the  same 
figure.  For  what  is  the  Odyssey  but  a  history 
of  the  orator,  in  the  largest  style,  carried  through 
a  series  of  adventures  furnishing  brilliant  oppor 
tunities  to  his  talent  ?  See  with  what  care  and 
pleasure  the  poet  brings  him  on  the  stage.  Helen 
is  pointing  out  to  Priam,  from  a  tower,  the  different 
Grecian  chiefs.  "  The  old  man  asked  :  '  Tell  me, 
dear  child,  who  is  that  man,  shorter  by  a  head  than 
Agamemnon,  yet  he  looks  broader  in  his  shoulders 
and  breast.  His  arms  lie  on  the  ground,  but  he, 
like  a  leader,  walks  about  the  bands  of  the  men. 


ELOQUENCE.  73 

He  seems  to  me  like  a  stately  ram,  who  goes  as 
a  master  of  the  flock.'  Him  answered  Helen, 
daughter  of  Jove,  'This  is  the  wise  Ulysses,  son 
of  Laertes,  who  was  reared  in  the  state  of  craggy 
Ithaca,  knowing  all  wiles  and  wise  counsels.'  To 
her  the  prudent  Autenor  replied  again  :  '  O  woman, 
you  have  spoken  truly.  For  once  the  wise  Ulysses 
came  hither  on  an  embassy,  with  Menelaus,  beloved 
by  Mars.  I  received  them  and  entertained  them  at 
my  house.  I  became  acquainted  with  the  genius 
and  the  prudent  judgments  of  both.  When  they 
mixed  with  the  assembled  Trojans,  and  stood, 
the  broad  shoulders  of  Menalaus  rose  above  the 
other ;  but,  both  sitting,  Ulysses  was  more  majestic. 
When  they  conversed,  and  interweaved  stories  and 
opinions  with  all,  Menelaus  spoke  succinctly, — few 
but  very  sweet  words,  since  he  was  not  talkative 
nor  superfluous  in  speech,  and  was  the  younger. 
But  when  the  wise  Ulysses  arose  and  stood  and 
looked  down,  fixing  his  eyes  on  the  ground,  and 
neither  moved  his  sceptre  backward  nor  forward, 
but  held  it  still,  like  an  awkward  person,  you  would 
say  it  was  some  angry  or  foolish  man  ;  but  when  he 
sent  his  great  voice  forth  out  of  his  breast,  and  his 
words  fell  like  the  winter  snows,  not  then  would 
any  mortal  contend  with  Ulysses  ;  and  we,  behold 
ing,  wondered  not  afterwards  so  much  at  his  as 
pect.'  "  1  Thus  he  does  not  fail  to  arm  Ulysses  at 
1  Iliad,  III.  191. 


74  .ELOQUENCE. 

first  with  this  power  of  overcoming  all  opposition 
by  the  blandishments  of  speech.  Plutarch  tells  us 
that  Thucydides,  when  Archidamus,  king-  of  Sparta, 
asked  him  which  was  the  best  wrestler,  Pericles 
or  he,  replied,  "  When  I  throw  him,  he  says  he 
was  never  down,  and  he  persuades  the  very  spec 
tators  to  believe  him."  Philip  of  Macedon  said  of 
Demosthenes,  on  hearing  the  report  of  one  of  his 
orations,  "  Had  I  been  there,  he  would  have  per 
suaded  me  to  take  up  arms  against  myself  ;  "  and 
Warren  Hastings  said  of  Burke's  speech  on  his 
impeachment,  "  As  I  listened  to  the  orator,  I  felt 
for  more  than  half  an  hour  as  if  I  were  the  most 
culpable  being  on  earth." 

In  these  examples,  higher  qualities  have  already 
entered,  but  the  power  of  detaining  the  ear  by 
pleasing  speech,  and  addressing  the  fancy  and  im 
agination,  often  exists  without  higher  merits.  Thus 
separated,  as  this  fascination  of  discourse  aims  only 
at  amusement,  though  it  be  decisive  in  its  momen 
tary  effect,  it  is  yet  a  juggle,  and  of  110  lasting- 
power.  It  is  heard  like  a  band  of  music  passing 
through  the  streets,  which  converts  all  the  passen 
gers  into  poets,  but  is  forgotten  as  soon  as  it  has 
turned  the  next  corner  ;  and  unless  this  oiled  tongue 
could,  in  Oriental  phrase,  lick  the  sun  and  moon 
away,  it  must  take  its  place  with  opium  and 
brandy.  I  know  no  remedy  against  it  but  cotton- 


ELOQUENCE.  75 

wool,  or  the  wax  which   Ulysses  stuffed  into  the 
ears  of  his  sailors  to  pass  the  Sirens  safely. 

There  are  all  degrees  of  power,  and  the  least 
are  interesting,  but  they  must  not  be  confounded. 
Tiiere  is  the  glib  tongue  and  cool  self-possession  of 
the  salesman  in  a  large  shop,  which,  as  is  well 
known,  overpower  the  prudence  and  resolution  of 
housekeepers  of  both  sexes.  There  is  a  petty  law 
yer's  fluency,  which  is  sufficiently  impressive  to 
him  who  is  devoid  of  that  talent,  though  it  be,  in 
so  many  cases,  nothing  more  than  a  facility  of  ex 
pressing  with  accuracy  and  speed  what  everybody 
thinks  and  says  more  slowly ;  without  new  informa 
tion,  or  precision  of  thought,  but  the  same  thing, 
neither  less  nor  more.  It  requires  no  special  in 
sight  to  edit  one  of  our  country  newspapers.  Yet 
whoever  can  say  off  currently,  sentence  by  sentence, 
matter  neither  better  nor  worse  than  what  is  there 
printed,  will  be  very  impressive  to  our  easily 
pleased  population.  These  talkers  are  of  that  class 
who  prosper,  like  the  celebrated  schoolmaster,  by 
being  only  one  lesson  ahead  of  the  pupil.  Add  a 
little  sarcasm  and  prompt  Allusion  to  passing  oc 
currences,  and  you  have  the  mischievous  member 
of  Congress.  A  spice  of  malice,  a  ruffian  touch  in 
his  rhetoric,  will  do  him  no  harm  with  his  audience. 
These  accomplishments  are  of  the  same  kind,  and 
only  a  degree  higher  than  the  coaxing  of  the  auc- 


76  ELOQUENCE. 

tioneer,  or  the  vituperative  style  \vcll  described  in 
the  street-word  "jawing."  These  kinds  of  public 
raid  private  speaking  have  their  use  and  conven 
ience  to  the  practitioners ;  but  we  may  say  of  such 
collectively  that  the  habit  of  oratory  is  apt  to  dis 
qualify  them  for  eloquence. 

One  of  our  statesmen  said,  "The  curse  of  this 
country  is  eloquent  men."  And  one  cannot  wonder 
at  the  uneasiness  sometimes  manifested  by  trained 
statesmen,  with  large  experience  of  public  affairs, 
when  they  observe  the  disproportionate  advantage 
suddenly  given  to  oratory  over  the  most  solid  and 
accumulated  public  service.  In  a  Senate  or  other 
business  committee,  the  solid  result  depends  on  a 
few  men  with  working-talent.  They  know  how  to 
deal  with  the  facts  before  them,  to  put  things  into 
a  practical  shape,  and  they  value  men  only  as  they 
can  forward  the  work.  But  a  new  man  comes 
there  who  has  no  capacity  for  helping  them  at  all, 
is  insignificant,  and  nobody  in  the  committee,  but 
has  a  talent  for  speaking.  In  the  debate  with  open 
doors,  this  precious  person  makes  a  speech  which 
is  printed  and  read  all  over  the  Union,  and  he  at 
once  becomes  famous,  and  takes  the  lead  in  the 
public  mind  over  all  these  executive  men,  who,  of 
course,  are  full  of  indignation  to  find  one  who  has 
no  tact  or  skill  and  knows  he  has  none,  put  over 
them  by  means  of  this  talking-power  which  they 
despise. 


ELOQUENCE.  77 

Leaving  behind  us  these  pretensions,  better  or 
worse,  to  come  a  little  nearer  to  the  verity,  —  elo-* 
quence  is  attractive  as  an  example  of  the  magic  of 
personal  ascendency,  —  a  total  and  resultant  power, 
rare,  because  it  requires  a  rich  coincidence  of 
powers,  intellect,  will,  sympathy,  organs,  and,  over 
fill,  good  fortune  in  the  cause.  We  have  a  half- 
belief  that  the  person  is  possible  who  can  counter 
poise  all  other  persons.  We  believe  that  there 
may  be  a  man  who  is  a  match  for  events,  one  who 
never  found  his  match,  against?  whom  other  men 
being  dashed  are  broken,  —  one  of  inexhaustible 
personal  resources,  who  can  give  you  any  odds  and 
beat  you.  What  we  really  wish  for  is  a  mind 
equal  to  any  exigency.  You  are  safe  in  your  rural 
district,  or  in  the  city,  in  broad  daylight,  amidst 
the  police,  and  under  the  eyes  of  a  hundred  thou 
sand  people.  But  how  is  it  on  the  Atlantic,  in  a 
storm,  —  do  you  understand  how  to  infuse  your  rea 
son  into  men  disabled  by  terror,  and  to  bring  your 
self  off  safe  then  ?  —  how  among  thieves,  or  among 
an  infuriated  populace,  or  among  cannibals  ?  Face 
to  face  with  a  highwayman  who  has  every  tempta 
tion  and  opportunity  for  violence  and  plunder,  can 
you  bring  yourself  off  safe  by  your  wit  exercised 
through  speech  ?  —  a  problem  easy  enough  to  Cae 
sar  or  Napoleon.  Whenever  a  man  of  that  stamp 
arrives,  the  highwayman  has  found  a  master.  What 


78  ELOQUENCE. 

a  difference  between  men  in  power  of  face !  A 
man  succeeds  because  he  has  more  power  of  eyo 
than  another,  and  so  coaxes  or  confounds  him. 
The  newspapers,  every  week,  report  the  adventures 
of  some  impudent  swindler,  who,  by  steadiness  of 
carriage,  duped  those  who  should  have  known  bet 
ter.  Yet  any  swindlers  we  have  known  are  novices 
and  bunglers,  as  is  attested  by  their  ill  name.  A 
greater  power  of  face  would  accomplish  anything, 
and,  with  the  rest  of  their  takings,  take  away  the 
bad  name.  A  greater  power  of  carrying  the  thing 
loftily  and  with  perfect  assurance,  would  confound 
merchant,  banker,  judge,  men  of  influence  and 
power,  poet  and  president,  and  might  head  any 
party,  unseat  any  sovereign,  and  abrogate  any  con 
stitution  in  Europe  and  America.  It  was  said  that 
a  man  has  at  one  step  attained  vast  power,  who 
has  renounced  his  moral  sentiment,  and  settled  it 
with  himself  that  he  will  no  longer  stick  at  any 
thing.  It  was  said  of  Sir  William  Peppercl,  one 
of  the  worthies  of  New  England,  that,  "  put  him 
where  you  might,  he  commanded,  and  saw  what  he 
willed  come  to  pass."  Julius  Caesar  said  to  Metel- 
lus,  when  that  tribune  interfered  to  hinder  him 
from  entering  the  Roman  treasury,  "  Young  man, 
it  is  easier  for  me  to  put  you  to  death  than  to  say 
that  I  will ;  "  and  the  youth  yielded.  In  earlier 
days,  he  was  taken  by  pirates.  What  then  ?  He 


ELOQUENCE.  79 

threw  himself  into  their  ship,  established  the  most 
extraordinary  intimacies,  told  them  stories,  de 
claimed  to  them ;  if  they  did  not  applaud  his 
speeches,  he  threatened  them  with  hanging,  — 
which  he  performed  afterwards,  —  and,  in  a  short 
time,  was  master  of  all  on  board.  A  man  this  is 
who  cannot  be  disconcerted,  and  so  can  never  play 
his  last  card,  but  has  a  reserve  of  power  when  he 
has  hit  his  mark.  With  a  serene  face,  he  subverts 
a  kingdom.  What  is  told  of  him  is  miraculous  ; 
it  affects  men  so.  The  confidence  of  men  in  him 
is  lavish,  and  he  changes  the  face  of  the  world,  and 
histories,  poems,  and  new  philosophies  arise  to  ac 
count  for  him.  A  supreme  commander  over  all 
his  passions  and  affections  ;  but  the  secret  of  his 
ruling  is  higher  than  that.  It  is  the  power  of  Na 
ture  running  without  impediment  from  the  brain 
and  will  into  the  hands.  Men  and  women  are  his 
game.  Where  they  are,  he  cannot  be  without  re 
source.  "  Whoso  can  speak  well,"  said  Luther, 
"  is  a  man."  It  was  men  of  this  stamp  that  the 
Grecian  States  used  to  ask  of  Sparta  for  generals. 
They  did  not  send  to  Lacedaemon  for  troops,  but 
they  said,  "Send  us  a  commander;"  and  Pausa- 
nias,  or  Gylippus,  or  Brasidas,  or  Agis,  was  de 
spatched  by  the  Ephors. 

It  is  easy  to  illustrate  this  overpowering  person 
ality  by  these  examples  of  soldiers  jmd  kings  ;  but 


80  ELOQUENCE. 

there  are  men  of  the  most  peaceful  way  of  life  and 
peaceful  principle,  who  are  felt  wherever  they  go, 
as  sensibly  as  a  July  sun  or  a  December  frost,  — 
men  who,  if  they  speak,  are  heard,  though  they 
speak  in  a  whisper,  —  who,  when  they  act,  act  ef 
fectually,  and  what  they  do  is  imitated ;  and  these 
examples  may  be  found  on  very  humble  platforms 
as  well  as  on  high  ones. 

In  old  countries  a  high  money-value  is  set  on 
the  services  of  men  who  have  achieved  a  personal 
distinction.  He  who  has  points  to  carry  must  hire, 
not  a  skilful  attorney,  but  a  commanding  person.  A 
barrister  in  England  is  reputed  to  have  made  thirty 
or  forty  thousand  pounds  per  annum  in  represent 
ing  the  claims  of  railroad  companies  before  commit 
tees  of  the  House  of  Commons.  His  clients  pay  not 
so  much  for  legal  as  for  manly  accomplishments,  — 
for  courage,  conduct,  and  a  commanding  social  po 
sition,  which  enable  him  to  make  their  claims  heard 
and  respected. 

I  know  very  well  that  among  our  cool  and  cal 
culating  people,  where  every  man  mounts  guard 
over  himself,  where  heats  and  panics  and  abandon 
ments  are  quite  out  of  the  system,  there  is  a  good 
deal  of  scepticism  as  to  extraordinary  influence, 
To  talk  of  an  overpowering  mind  rouses  the  same 
jealousy  and  defiance  which  one  may  observe  round 
a  table  where  anybody  is  recounting  the  marvellous 


ELOQUENCE.  81 

anecdotes  of  mesmerism.  Each  auditor  puts  a  final 

"by  exclaiming,  "  Can  lie 
So  each  man  inquires  if  any 
orator  can  change  his  convictions. 

But  does  any  one  suppose  himself  to  be  quite 
impregnable  ?  Does  he  think  that  not  possibly  a 
man  may  come  to  him  who  shall  persuade  him  out 
of  his  most  settled  determination  ?  —  for  example 
good  sedate  citizen  as  he  is,  to  make  a  fanatic  of 
him,  —  or,  if  he  is  penurious,  to  squander  money  for 
some  purpose  he  now  least  thinks  of,  —  or,  if  he  is 
a  prudent,  industrious  person,  to  forsake  his  work, 
and  give  days  and  weeks  to  a  new  interest?  No, 
he  defies  any  one,  every  one.  Ah !  he  is  thinking 
of  resistance,  and  of  a  different  turn  from  his  own. 
But  what  if  one  should  come  of  the  same  turn  of 
mind  as  his  own,  and  who  sees  much  farther  on  his 
o\vn  way  than  he?  A  man  who  has  tastes  like 
mine,  but  in  greater  power,  will  rule  me  any  day, 
and  make  rne  love  my  ruler. 

Thus  it  is  not  powers  of  speech  that  we  primarily 
consider  under  this  word  eloquence,  but  the  power 
that  being  present,  gives  them  their  perfection, 
and  being  absent,  leaves  them  a  merely  superficial 
value.  Eloquence  is  the  appropriate  organ  of  the 
highest  personal  energy.  Personal  ascendency  may 
exist  with  or  without  adequate  talent  for  its  expres 
sion.  It  is  as  surely  felt  as  a  mountain  or  a  planet; 

VOL.  VII.  6 


82  ELOQUENCE. 

but  when  it  is  weaponed  with  a  power  of  speech,  it 
seems  first  to  become  truly  human,  works  actively 
in  all  directions,  and  supplies  the  imagination  with 
fine  materials. 

This  circumstance  enters  into  every  considera 
tion  of  the  power  of  orators,  and  is  the  key  to  all 
their  effects.  In  the  assembly,  you  shall  find  the 
orator  and  the  audience  in  perpetual  balance ;  and 
the  predominance  of  either  is  indicated  by  the 
choice  of  topic.  If  the  talents  for  speaking  exist, 
but  not  the  strong  personality,  then  there  are  good 
speakers  who  perfectly  receive  and  express  the  will 
of  the  audience,  and  the  commonest  populace  is 
flattered  by  hearing  its  low  mind  returned  to  it 
with  every  ornament  which  happy  talent  can  add. 
But  if  there  be  personality  in  the  orator,  the  face 
of  things  changes.  The  audience  is  thrown  into 
the  attitude  of  pupil,  follows  like  a  child  its  pre 
ceptor,  and  hears  what  he  has  to  say.  It  is  as 
if,  amidst  the  king's  council  at  Madrid,  Ximenes 
urged  that  an  advantage  might  be  gained  of  France, 
and  Mendoza  that  Flanders  might  be  kept  down, 
and  Columbus,  being  introduced,  was  interrogated 
whether  his  geographical  knowledge  could  aid  the 
cabinet ;  and  he  can  say  nothing  to  one  party  or  to 
the  other,  but  he  can  show  how  all  Europe  can  be 
diminished  and  reduced  under  the  king,  by  annex 
ing  to  Spain  a  continent  as  large  as  six  or  seven 
Europes. 


ELOQUENCE.  83 

This  balance  between  the  orator  and  the  audi 
ence  is  expressed  in  what  is  called  the  pertinence 
of  the  speaker.  There  is  always  a  rivalry  between 
the  orator  and  the  occasion,  between  the  demands 
of  the  hour  and  the  prepossession  of  the  individual. 
The  emergency  which  has  convened  the  meeting  is 
usually  of  more  importance  than  anything  the  de 
baters  have  in  their  minds,  and  therefore  becomes 
imperative  to  them.  But  if  one  of  them  have  any 
thing  of  commanding  necessity  in  his  heart,  how 
speedily  he  will  find  vent  for  it,  and  with  the  ap 
plause  of  the  assembly  !  This  balance  is  observed 
in  the  privatest  intercourse.  Poor  Tom  never  knew 
the  time  when  the  present  occurrence  was  so  trivial 
that  he  could  tell  what  was  passing  in  his  mind 
without  being  checked  for  unseasonable  speech ;  but 
let  Bacon  speak  and  wise  men  would  rather  listen 
though  the  revolution  of  kingdoms  was  on  foot. 
I  have  heard  it  reported  of  an  eloquent  preacher, 
whose  voice  is  not  yet  forgotten  in  this  city,  that, 
on  occasions  of  death  or  tragic  disaster  which  over 
spread  the  congregation  with  gloom,  he  ascended 
the  pulpit  with  more  than  his  usual  alacrity,  and 
turning  to  his  favorite  lessons  of  devout  and  jubi 
lant  thankfulness,  —  "  Let  us  praise  the  Lord," — 
carried  audience,  mourners,  and  mourning  along 
with  him,  and  swept  away  all  the  impertinence 
of  private  sorrow  with  his  hosamias  and  songs  of 


84  ELOQUENCE. 

praise.  Pepys  says  of  Lord  Clarendon  (with  whom 
"  he  is  mad  in  love  ")  on  his  return  from  a  con 
ference,  "  I  did  never  observe  how  much  cacier  a 
man  do  speak  when  he  knows  all  the  company  to 
be  below  him,  than  in  him ;  for,  though  he  spoke 
indeed  excellent  well,  yet  his  manner  and  freedom 
of  doing  it,  as  if  he  played  with  it,  and  was  inform 
ing  only  all  the  rest  of  the  company,  was  mighty 
pretty."  a 

This  rivalry  between  the  orator  and  the  occasion 
is  inevitable,  and  the  occasion  always  yields  to  the 
eminence  of  the  speaker;  for  a  great  man  is  the 
greatest  of  occasions.  Of  course  the  interest  of  the 
audience  and  of  the  orator  conspire.  It  is  well 
with  them  only  when  his  influence  is  complete  ; 
then  only  they  are  well  pleased.  Especially  he 
consults  his  power  by  making  instead  of  taking  his 
theme.  If  he  should  attempt  to  instruct  the  people 
in  that  which  they  already  know,  he  would  fail  ; 
but  by  making  them  wise  in  that  which  he  knows, 
he  has  the  advantage  of  the  assembly  every  mo 
ment.  Napoleon's  tactics  of  marching  on  the  angle 
of  an  army,  and  always  presenting  a  superiority  of 
numbers,  is  the  orator's  secret  also. 

The  several  talents  which  the  orator  employs,  the 
splendid  weapons  which  went  to  the  equipment  of 
Demosthenes,  of  ./Esehiiies,  of  Demades  the  natural 
i  Diary,  I.  169. 


ELOQUENCE.  85 

orator,  of  Fox,  of  Pitt,  of  Patrick  Henry,  of  Adams, 
of  Mirabeau,  deserve  a  special  enumeration.  We 
must  not  quite  omit  to  name  the  principal  pieces. 

The  orator,  as  we  have  seen,  must  be  a  substan 
tial  personality.  Then,  first,  he  must  have  power 
of  statement,  —  must  have  the  fact,  and  know  how 
to  tell  it.  In  any  knot  of  men  conversing  on  any 
subject,  the  person  who  knows  most  about  it  will 
have  the  ear  of  the  company  if  he  wishes  it,  and 
lead  the  conversation,  110  matter  what  genius  or 
distinction  other  men  there  present  may  have  ;  and 
in  any  public  assembly,  him  who  has  the  facts  and 
can  and  will  state  them,  people  will  listen  to,  though 
he  is  otherwise  ignorant,  though  he  is  hoarse  and 
ungraceful,  though  he  stutters  and  screams. 

In  a  court  of  justice  the  audience  are  impartial ; 
they  really  wish  to  sift  the  statements  and  know 
what  the  truth  is.  And  in  the  examination  of  wit 
nesses  there  usually  leap  out,  quite  unexpectedly, 
three  or  four  stubborn  words  or  phrases  which  are 
the  pith  and  fate  of  the  business,  which  sink  into 
the  ear  of  all  parties,  and  stick  there,  and  determine 
the  cause.  All  the  rest  is  repetition  and  qualify 
ing  ;  and  the  court  and  the  county  have  really  come 
together  to  arrive  at  these  three  or  four  memorable 
expressions  which  betrayed  the  mind  and  meaning 
of  somebody. 

In  every  company  the  man  with  the  fact  is  like 


86  ELOQUENCE. 

the  guide  you  hire  to  lead  your  party  up  a  moun 
tain,  or  through  a  difficult  country.  lie  may  not 
compare  with  any  of  the  party  in  mind,  or  breed 
ing,  or  courage,  or  possessions,  but  he  is  much 
more  important  to  the  present  need  than  any  of 
them.  That  is  what  we  goxto  the  court-house  for, 
—  the  statement  of  the  fact,  and  of  a  general  fact, 
the  real  relation  of  all  the  parties  ;  and  it  is  the 
certainty  with  which,  indifferently  in  any  affair 
that  is  well  handled,  the  truth  stares  us  in  the  face 
through  all  the  disguises  that  are  put  upon  it,  —  a 
piece  of  the  well-known  human  life,  —  that  makes 
the  interest  of  a  court-room  to  the  intelligent  spec 
tator. 

I  remember  long  ago  being  attracted,  by  the  dis 
tinction  of  the  counsel  and  the  local  importance 
of  the  cause,  into  the  court-room.  The  prisoner's 
counsel  were  the  strongest  and  cunningest  lawyers 
in  the  Commonwealth.  They  drove  the  attorney 
for  the  State  from  corner  to  corner,  taking  his  rea 
sons  from  under  him,  and  reducing  him  to  silence, 
but  not  to  submission.  When  hard  pressed,  he  re 
venged  himself,  in  his  turn,  on  the  judge,  by  re 
quiring  the  court  to  define  what  salvage  was.  The 
court,  thus  pushed,  tried  words,  and  said  every 
thing  it  could  think  of  to  fill  the  time,  supposing 
cases,  and  describing  duties  of  insurers,  captains, 
pilots,  and  miscellaneous  sea-officers  that  are  or 


ELOQUENCE.  87 

might  be,  —  like  a  schoolmaster  puzzled  by  a  hard 
sum,  who  reads  the  context  with  emphasis.  But 
all  this  flood  not  serving  the  cuttle-fish  to  get  away 
in,  the  horrible  shark  of  the  district-attorney  being 
still  there,  grimly  awaiting  with  his  "  The  court 
must  define,"  —  the  poor  court  pleaded  its  inferi 
ority.  The  superior  court  must  establish  the  law 
for  this,  and  it  read  away  piteously  the  decisions 
of  the  Supreme  Court,  but  read  to  those  who  had 
no  pity.  The  judge  was  forced  at  last  to  rule  some 
thing,  and  the  lawyers  saved  their  rogue  under  the 
fog  of  a  definition.  The  parts  were  so  well  cast 
and  discriminated  that  it  was  an  interesting  game 
to  watch.  The  government  was  well  enough  rep 
resented.  It  was  stupid,  but  it  had  a  strong  will 
and  possession,  and  stood  on  that  to  the  last.  The 
judge  had  a  task  beyond  his  preparation,  yet  his 
position  remained  real :  he  was  there  to  represent  a 
great  reality,  —  the  justice  of  states,  which  we  could 
well  enough  see  beetling  over  his  head,  and  which 
his  trifling  talk  nowise  affected,  and  did  not  im 
pede,  since  he  was  entirely  well-meaning. 

The  statement  of  the  fact,  however,  sinks  before 
the  statement  of  the  law,  which  requires  immeasur 
ably  higher  powers,  and  is  a  rarest  gift,  being  in 
all  great  masters  one  and  the  same  thing,  —  in 
lawyers  nothing  technical,  but  always  some  piece 
of  common-sense,  alike  interesting  to  laymen  as 


88  ELOQUENCE. 

to  clerks.  Lord  Mansfield's  merit  is  the  merit  of 
common-sense.  It  is  the  same  quality  we  admire 
in  Aristotle,  Montaigne,  Cervantes,  or  in  Samuel 
Johnson,  or  Franklin.  Its  application  to  law 
seems  quite  accidental.  Each  of  Mansfield's  fa 
mous  decisions  contains  a  level  sentence  or  two 
which  hit  the  mark.  His  sentences  are  not  always 
finished  to  the  eye,  but  are  finished  to  the  mind. 
The  sentences  are  involved,  but  a  solid  proposition 
is  set  forth,  a  true  distinction  is  drawn.  They  come 
from  and  they  go  to  the  sound  human  understand 
ing  ;  and  I  read  without  surprise  that  the  black- 
letter  lawyers  of  the  day  sneered  at  his  "  equitable 
decisions,"  as  if  they  were  not  also  learned.  This, 
indeed,  is  what  speech  is  for,  —  to  make  the  state 
ment  ;  and  all  that  is  called  eloquence  seems  to  me 
of  little  use  for  the  most  part  to  those  who  have  it, 
but  inestimable  to  such  as  have  something  to  say. 

Next  to  the  knowledge  of  the  fact  and  its  law  is 
'method,  which  constitutes  the  genius  and  efficiency 
of  all  remarkable  men.  A  crowd  of  men  go  up  to 
Faneuil  Hall ;  they  are  all  pretty  well  acquainted 
with  the  object  of  the  meeting  ;  they  have  all  read 
the  facts  in  the  same  newspapers.  The  orator  pos 
sesses  no  information  which  his  hearers  have  not, 
yet  he  teaches  them  to  see  the  thing  with  his  eyes. 
By  the  new  placing,  the  circumstances  acquire  new 
solidity  and  worth.  Every  fact  gains  consequence 


ELOQUENCE.   -  89 

by  his  naming  it,  and  trifles  become  important. 
His  expressions  fix  themselves  in  men's  memories, 
and  fly  from  mouth  to  mouth.  His  mind  has  some 
new  principle  of  order.  Where  he  looks,  all  things 
fly  into  their  places.  What  will  he  say  next  ?  Let 
this  man  speak,  and  this  man  only.  By  applying 
the  habits  of  a  higher  style  of  thought  to  the  com 
mon  affairs  of  this  world,  he  introduces  beauty  and 
magnificence  wherever  he  goes.  Such  a  power  was 
Burke's,  and  of  this  genius  we  have  had  some  brill 
iant  examples  in  our  own  political  and  legal  men. 

Imagery.  The  orator  must  be,  to  a  certain  ex 
tent,  a  poet.  We  are  such  imaginative  creatures 
that  nothing  so  works  on  the  human  mind,  barba 
rous  or  civil,  as  a  trope.  Condense  some  daily  ex 
perience  into  a  glowing  symbol,  and  an  audience  is 
electrified.  They  feel  as  if  they  already  possessed 
some  new  right  and  power  over  a  fact  which  they 
can  detach,  and  so  completely  master  in  thought. 
It  is  a  wonderful  aid  to  the  memory,  which  carries 
away  the  image  and  never  loses  it.  A  popular  as 
sembly,  like  the  House  of  Commons,  or  the  French 
Chamber,  or  the  American  Congress,  is  commanded 
by  these  two  powers,  —  first  by  a  fact,  then  by  skill 
of  statement.  Put  the  argument  into  a  concrete 
shape,  into  an  image,  —  some  hard  phrase,  round 
and  solid  as  a  ball,  which  .they  can  see  and  handle 
and  carry  home  with  them,  —  and  the  cause  is  half 
won. 


90  ELOQUENCE. 

Statement,  method,  imagery,  selection,  tenacity 
of  memory,  power  of  dealing  with  facts,  of  illumi 
nating  them,  of  sinking  them  by  ridicule  or  by 
diversion  of  the  mind,  rapid  generalization,  humor, 
pathos,  are  keys  which  the  orator  holds  ;  and  yet 
these  fine  gifts  are  not  eloquence,  and  do  often  hin 
der  a  man's  attainment  of  it.  And  if  we  come  to 
the  heart  of  the  mystery,  perhaps  we  should  say 
that  the  truly  eloquent  man  is  a  sane  man  with 
power  to  communicate  his  sanity.  If  you  arm  the 
man  with  the  extraordinary  weapons  of  this  art, 
give  him  a  grasp  of  facts,  learning,  quick  fancy,  sar 
casm,  splendid  allusion,  interminable  illustration, — 
all  these  talents,  so  potent  and  charming,  have  an 
equal  power  to  insnare  and  mislead  the  audience 
and  the  orator.  His  talents  are  too  much  for  him, 
his  horses  run  away  with  him  ;  and  people  always 
perceive  whether  you  drive  or  whether  the  horses 
take  the  bits  in  their  teeth  and  run.  But  these  tal 
ents  are  quite  something  else  when  they  are  subor 
dinated  and  serve  him  ;  and  we  go  to  Washington, 
or  to  Westminster  Hall,  or  might  well  go  round 
the  world,  to  see  a  man  who  drives,  and  is  not  run 
away  with,  —  a  man  who,  in  prosecuting  great  de 
signs,  has  an  absolute  command  of  the  means  of 
representing  his  ideas,  and  uses  them  only  to  ex 
press  these  ;  placing  facts,  placing  men  ;  amid  the 
inconceivable  levity  of  human  beings,  never  for 


ELOQUENCE.     •  91 

an  instant  warped  from  his  erectness.  There  is 
for  every  man  a  statement  possible  of  that  truth 
which  he  is  most  unwilling  to  receive,  —  a  state 
ment  possible,  so  broad  and  so  pungent  that  he 
cannot  get  away  from  it,  but  must  either  bend  to 
it  or  die  of  it.  Else  there  would  be  no  such  word 
as  eloquence,  which  means  this.  The  listener  can 
not  hide  from  himself  that  something  has  been 
shown  him  and  the  whole  world  which  he  did  not 
wish  to  see  ;  and  as  he  cannot  dispose  of  it,  it  dis 
poses  of  him.  The  history  of  public  men  and  af 
fairs  in  America  will  readily  furnish  tragic  exam 
ples  of  this  fatal  force. 

For  the  triumphs  of  the  art  somewhat  more  must 
still  be  required,  namely  a  reinforcing  of  man  from 
events,  so  as  to  give  the  double  force  of  reason  and 
destiny.  In  transcendent  eloquence,  there  was  ever 
some  crisis  in  affairs,  such  as  could  deeply  engage 
the  man  to  the  cause  he  pleads,  and  draw  all  this 
wide  power  to  a  point.  For  the  explosions  and 
eruptions,  there  must  be  accumulations  of  heat 
somewhere,  beds  of  ignited  anthracite  at  the  centre. 
And  in  cases  where  profound  conviction  has  been 
wrought,  the  eloquent  man  is  he  who  is  no  beauti 
ful  speaker,  but  who  is  inwardly  drunk  with  a  cer 
tain  belief.  It  agitates  and  tears  him,  and  perhaps 
almost  bereaves  him  of  the  power  of  articulation. 
Then  it  rushes  from  him  as  in  short,  abrupt  screams, 


92  ELOQUENCE. 

in  torrents  of  meaning.  The  possession  the  subject 
Las  of  his  mind  is  so  entire  that  it  insures  an  order 
of  expression  which  is  the  order  of  Nature  itself, 
and  so  the  order  of  greatest  force,  and  inimitable 
by  any  art.  And  the  main  distinction  between 
him  and  other  wfcll-graced  actors  is  the  conviction, 
communicated  by  every  word,  that  his  mind  is  con 
templating  a  whole,  and  inflamed  by  the  contem 
plation  of  the  whole,  and  that  the  words  and  sen 
tences  uttered  by  him,  however  admirable,  fall  from 
him  as  unregarded  parts  of  that  terrible  whole 
which  he  sees  and  which  he  means  that  you  shall 
see.  Add  to  this  concentration  a  certain  regnant 
calmness,  which,  in  all  the  tumult,  never  utters 
a  premature  syllable,  but  keeps  the  secret  of  its 
means  and  method ;  and  the  orator  stands  before 
the  people  as  a  demoniacal  power  to  whose  miracles 
they  have  no  key.  This  terrible  earnestness  makes 
good  the  ancient  superstition  of  the  hunter,  that 
the  bullet  will  hit  its  mark,  which  is  first  dipped  in 
the  marksman's  blood. 

Eloquence  must  be  grounded  on  the  plainest 
narrative.  Afterwards,  it  may  warm  itself  until  it 
exhales  symbols  of  every  kind  and  color,  speaks 
only  through  the  most  poetic  forms  ;  but,  first  and 
last,  it  must  still  be  at  bottom  a  biblical  statement 
of  fact.  The  orator  is  thereby  an  orator,  that  he 
keeps  his  feet  ever  on  a  fact.  Thus  only  is  he  in- 


ELOQUENCE.  93 

vincible.  No  gifts,  no  graces,  no  power  of  wit  or 
learning  or  illustration  will  make  any  amends  for 
want  of  this.  All  audiences  are  just  to  this  point. 
Fame  of  voice  or  of  rhetoric  will  carry  people  a 
few  times  to  hear  a  speaker ;  but  they  soon  begin 
to  ask,  "  What  is  he  driving  at  ?  "  and  if  this  man 
does  not  stand  for  anything,  he  will  be  deserted.' 
A  good  upholder  of  anything  which  they  believe,  "a 
fact-speaker  of  any  kind,  they  will  long  follow; 
but  a  pause  in  the  speaker's  own  character  is  very 
properly  a  loss  of  attraction.  The  preacher  enu 
merates  his  classes  of  men  and  I  do  not  find  my 
place  therein  ;  I  suspect  then  that  no  man  does. 
Everything  is  my  cousin ;  and  whilst  he  speaks 
things,  I  feel  that  he  is  touching  some  of  my  rela 
tions,  and  I  am  uneasy ;  but  whilst  he  deals  in 
words  we  are  released  from  attention.  If  you  ' 
would  lift  me  you  must  be  on  higher  ground.  If 
you  would  liberate  me  you  must  be  free.  If  you 
would  correct  my  false  view  of  facts,  —  hold  up  to 
me  the  same  facts  in  the  true  order  of  thought,  and 
I  cannot  go  back  from  the  new  conviction. 

The  power  of  Chatham,  of  Pericles,  of  Luther, 
rested  on  this  strength  of  character,  which,  because 
it  did  not  and  could  not  fear  anybody,  made  noth 
ing  of  their  antagonists,  and  became  sometimes 
exquisitely  provoking  and  sometimes  terrific  to 
these. 


94  ELOQUENCE. 

We  are  slenderly  furnished  with  anecdotes  of 
these  men,  nor  can  we  help  ourselves  by  those 
heavy  books  in  which  their  discourses  are  reported. 
Some  of  them  were  writers,  like  Burke ;  but  most 
of  them  were  not,  and  no  record  at  all  adequate 
to  their  fame  remains.  Besides,  what  is  best  is 
lost,  —  the  fiery  life  of  the  moment.  But  the  con 
ditions  for  eloquence  always  exist.  It  is  always 
dying  out  of  famous  places  and  appearing  in  cor 
ners.  Wherever  the  polarities  meet,  wherever  the 
fresh  moral  sentiment,  the  instinct  of  freedom  and 
duty,  come  in  direct  opposition  to  fossil  conserva 
tism  and  the  thirst  of  gain,  the  spark  will  pass. 
The  resistance  to  slavery  in  this  country  has  been 
a  fruitful  nursery  of  orators.  The  natural  connec 
tion  by  which  it  drew  to  itself  a  train  of  moral  re 
forms,  and  the  slight  yet  sufficient  party  organiza 
tion  it  offered,  reinforced  the  city  with  new  blood 
from  the  woods  and  mountains.  Wild  men,  John 
Baptists,  Hermit  Peters,  John  Knoxes,  utter  the 
savage  sentiment  of  Nature  in  the  heart  of  commer- 

o 

cial  capitals.  They  send  us  every  year  some  piece 
of  aboriginal  strength,  some  tough  oak-stick  of  a 
man  who  is  not  to  be  silenced  or  insulted  or  intimi 
dated  by  a  mob,  because  he  is  more  mob  than  they, 
—  one  who  mobs  the  mob,  —  some  sturdy  country 
man,  on  whom  neither  money,  nor  politeness,  nor 
hard  words,  nor  eggs,  nor  blows,  nor  brickbats, 


ELOQUENCE. 

make  any  impression.  He  is  fit  to  meet  the 
room  wits  and  bullies  ;  he  is  a  wit  and  a  bully  him 
self,  and  something  more :  he  is  a  graduate  of  the 
plough,  and  the  stub-hoe,  and  the  bushwhacker; 
knows  all  the  secrets  of  swamp  and  snow-bank,  and 
has  nothing  to  learn  of  labor  or  poverty  or  the 
rough  of  farming.  His  hard  head  went  through, 
in  childhood,  the  drill  of  Calvinism,  with  text  and 
mortification,  so  that  he  stands  in  the  New  Eng 
land  assembly  a  purer  bit  of  New  England  than 
any,  and  flings  his  sarcasms  right  and  left.  Pie 
has  not  only  the  documents  in  his  pocket  to  answer 
all  cavils  and  to  prove  all  his  positions,  but  he  has 
the  eternal  reason  in  his  head.  This  man  scorn 
fully  renounces  your  civil  organizations, — county, 
or  city,  or  governor,  or  army ;  —  is  his  own  navy 
and  artillery,  judge  and  jury,  legislature  and  exec 
utive.  He  has  learned  his  lessons  in  a  bitter 
school.  Yet,  if  the  pupil  be  of  a  texture  to  bear 
it,  the  best  university  that  can  be  recommended  to 
a  man  of  ideas  is  the  gauntlet  of  the  mobs. 

He  who  will  train  himself  to  mastery  in  this 
science  of  persuasion  must  lay  the  emphasis  of  ed 
ucation,  not  on  popular  arts,  but  on  character  and 
insight.  Let  him  see  that  his  speech  is  not  differ 
enced  from  action ;  that  when  he  has  spoken  he  has 
not  done  nothing,  nor  done  wrong,  but  has  cleared 
his  own  skirts,  has  engaged  himself  to  wholesome 


96  ELOQUENCE. 

exertion.  Let  him  look  on  opposition  as  opportu 
nity.  He  cannot  be  defeated  or  put  down.  There, 
is  a  principle  of  resurrection  in  him,  an  immortality 
of  purpose.  Men  are  averse  and  hostile,  to  give 
value  to  their  suffrages.  It  is  not  the  people  that 
are  in  fault  for  not  being  convinced,  but  he  that 
cannot  convince  them.  He  should  mould  them, 
armed  as  he  is  with  the  reason  and  love  which  are 
also  the  core  of  their  nature.  He  is  not  to  neutral 
ize  their  opposition,  but  he  is  to  convert  them  into 
fiery  apostles  and  publishers  of  the  same  wisdom. 

The  highest  platform  of  eloquence  is  the  moral 
sentiment.  It  is  what  is  called  affirmative  truth, 
and  has  the  property  of  invigorating  the  hearer; 
and  it  conveys  a  hint  of  our  eternity,  when  he 
feels  himself  addressed  on  grounds  which  will  re 
main  when  everything  else  is  taken,  and  which  have 
no  trace  of  time  or  place  or  party.  Everything 
hostile  is  stricken  down  in  the  presence  of  the  sen 
timents  ;  their  majesty  is  felt  by  the  most  obdurate. 
It  is  observable  that  as  soon  as  one  acts  for  large 
masses,  the  moral  element  will  and  must  be  allowed 
for,  will  and  must  work ;  and  the  men  least  accus 
tomed  to  appeal  to  these  sentiments  invariably  re 
call  them  when  they  address  nations.  Napoleon, 
even,  must  accept  and  use  it  as  he  can. 

It  is  only  to  these  simple  strokes  that  the  highest 
power  belongs,  —  when  a  weak  human  hand  touches, 


ELOQUENCE.  97 

point  by  point,  the  eternal  beams  and  rafters  on 
which  the  whole  structure  of  Nature  and  society  is 
laid.  In  this  tossing  sea  of  delusion  we  feel  with 
our  feet  the  adamant ;  in  this  dominion  of  chance 
we  find  a  principle  of  permanence.  For  I  do  not 
accept  that  definition  of  Isocrates,  that  the  office  of 
his  art  is  to  make  the  great  small  and  the  small 
great ;  but  I  esteem  this  to  be  its  perfection,  — 
when  the  orator  sees  through  all  masks  to  the  eter 
nal  scale  of  truth,  in  such  sort  that  he  can  hold  up 
before  the  eyes  of  men  the  fact  of  to-day  steadily 
to  that  standard,  thereby  making  the  great  great, 
and  the  small  small,  which  is  the  true  way  to  aston 
ish  and  to  reform  mankind. 

All  the  chief  orators  of  the  world  have  been 
grave  men,  relying  on  this  reality.  One  thought 
the  philosophers  of  Demosthenes's  own  time  found 
running  through  all  his  orations,  —  this  namely, 
that  "  virtue  secures  its  own  success."  "  To  stand 
on  one's  own  feet"  Heeren  finds  the  key-note  to 
the  discourses  of  Demosthenes,  as  of  Chatham. 

Eloquence,  like  every  other  art,  rests  on  laws  the 
most  exact  and  determinate.  It  is  the  best  speech 
of  the  best  soul.  It  may  well  stand  as  the  exponent 
of  all  that  is  grand  and  immortal  in  the  mind.  If 
it  do  not  so  become  an  instrument,  but  aspires  to  be 
somewhat  of  itself,  and  to  glitter  for  show,  it  is 
false  and  weak.  In  its  right  exercise,  it  is  an  elas- 

VOL.   VII.  7 


98  ELOQUENCE. 

tic,  unexhausted  power,  —  who  has  sounded,  who 
has  estimated  it  ?  —  expanding  with  the  expansion 
of  our  interests  and  affections.  Its  great  masters, 
whilst  they  valued  every  help  to  its  attainment,  and 
thought  no  pains  too  great  which  contributed  in 
any  manner  to  further  it,  —  resembling  the  Arabian 
warrior  of  fame,  who  wore  seventeen  weapons  in 
his  belt,  and  in  personal  combat  used  them  all  oc 
casionally,  —  yet  subordinated  all  means ;  never 
permitted  any  talent  —  neither  voice,  rhythm,  po 
etic  power,  anecdote,  sarcasm  —  to  appear  for  show ; 
but  were  grave  men,  who  preferred  their  integrity 
to  their  talent,  and  esteemed  that  object  for  which 
they  toiled,  whether  the  prosperity  of  their  country, 
or  the  laws,  or  a  reformation,  or  liberty  of  speech 
or  of  the  press,  or  letters,  or  morals,  as  above  the 
whole  world,  and  themselves  also. 


DOMESTIC   LIFK 


DOMESTIC  LIFE. 


THE  perfection  of  the  providence  for  childhood 
is  easily  acknowledged.  The  care  which  covers  the 
seed  of  the  tree  under  tough  husks  and  stony  cases 
provides  for  the  human  plant  the  mother's  breast 
and  the  father's  house.  The  size  of  the  nestler  is 
comic,  and  its  tiny  beseeching  weakness  is  compen 
sated  perfectly  by  the  happy  patronizing  look  of 
the  mother,  who  is  a  sort  of  high  reposing  provi 
dence  toward  it.  Welcome  to  the  parents  the  puny 
struo-o-Jer,  strong  in  his  weakness,  his  little  arms 

ofc>          "  O 

more  irresistible  than  the  soldier's,  his  lips  touched 
with  persuasion  which  Chatham  and  Pericles  in 
manhood  had  not.  His  unaffected  lamentations 
when  he  lifts  up  his  voice  on  high,  or,  more  beauti 
ful,  the  sobbing  child,  —  the  face  all  liquid  grief, 
as  he  tries  to  swallow  his  vexation,  —  soften  all 
hearts  to  pity,  and  to  mirthful  and  clamorous  com 
passion.  The  small  despot  asks  so  little  that  all 
reason  and  all  nature  are  on  his  side.  His  igno 
rance  is  more  charming  than  all  knowledge,  and  his 
little  sins  more  bewitching  than  any  virtue.  His 


102  DOMESTIC-  LIFE. 

flesh  is  angels'  flesh,  all  alive.  "  Infancy,"  said 
Coleridge,  "  presents  body  and  spirit  in  unity :  the 
body  is  all  animated."  All  day,  between  his  three 
or  four  sleeps,  he  coos  like  a  pigeon-house,  sputters 
and  spurs  and  puts  on  his  faces  of  importance ; 
and  when  he  fasts,  the  little  Pharisee  fails  not  to 
sound  his  trumpet  before  him.  By  lamplight  he 
delights  in  shadows  on  the  wall;  by  daylight,  in 
yellow  and  scarlet.  Carry  him  out  of  doors,  —  he  is 
overpowered  by  the  light  and  by  the  extent  of  nat 
ural  objects,  and  is  silent.  Then  presently  begins 
his  use  of  his  fingers,  and  he  studies  power,  the  les 
son  of  his  race.  First  it  appears  in  no  great  harm, 
in  architectural  tastes.  Out  of  blocks,  thread- 
spools,  cards,  and  checkers,  he  will  build  his  pyra 
mid  with  the  gravity  of  Palladio.  With  an  acous 
tic  apparatus  of  whistle  and  'rattle  he  explores  the 
laws  of  sound.  But  chiefly,  like  his  senior  country 
men,  the  young  American  studies  new  and  speedier 
modes  of  transportation.  Mistrusting  the  cunning 
of  his  small  legs,  he  wishes  to  ride  on  the  necks 
and  shoulders  of  all  flesh.  The  small  enchanter 
nothing  can  withstand,  —  no  seniority  of  age,  no 
gravity  of  character ;  uncles,  aunts,  graiidsires, 
grandams,  fall  an  easy  prey  :  he  conforms  to  no 
body,  all  conform  to  him  ;  all  caper  and  make 
mouths  and  babble  and  chirrup  to  him.  On  the 
strongest  shoulders  he  rides,  and  pulls  the  hair  of 
laurelled  heads. 


DOMESTIC  LIFE.  103 

"  The  childhood,"  said  Milton,  "  shows  the  man, 
as  morning  shows  the  day."  The  child  realizes  to 
every  man  his  own  earliest  remembrance,  and  so 
supplies  a  defect  in  our  education,  or  enables  us  to 
live  over  the  unconscious  history  with  a  sympathy 
so  tender  as  to  be  almost  personal  experience. 

Fast  —  almost  too  fast  for  the  wistful  curiosity  of 
the  parents,  studious  of  the  witchcraft  of  curls  and 
dimples  and  broken  words  —  the  little  talker  grows 
to  a  boy.  He  walks  daily  among  wonders  :  fire, 
light,  darkness,  the  moon,  the  stars,  the  furniture  of 
the  house,  the  red  tin  horse,  the  domestics,  who  like 
rude  foster-mothers  befriend  and  feed  him,  the  faces 
that  claim  his  kisses,  are  all  in  turn  absorbing ;  yet 
warm,  cheerful,  and  with  good  appetite  the  little 
sovereign  subdues  them  without  knowing  it ;  the 
new  knowledge  is  taken  up  into  the  life  of  to-day 
and  becomes  the  means  of  more.  The  blowing 
rose  is  a  new  event ;  the  garden  full  of  flowers  is 
Eden  over  again  to  the  small  Adam ;  the  rain,  the 
ice,  the  frost,  make  epochs  in  his  life.  What  a 
holiday  is  the  first  snow  in  which  Twoshoes  can  be 
trusted  abroad ! 

What  art  can  paint  or  gild  any  object  in  after 
life  with  the  glow  which  Nature  gives  to  the  first 
baubles  of  childhood !  St.  Peter's  can  not  have  the 
magical  power  over  us  that  the  red  and  gold  covers 
of  our  first  picture-book  possessed.  How  the  im- 


104  DOMESTIC  LIFE. 

agination  cleaves  to  the  warm  glories  of  that  tinsel 
even  now  !  What  entertainments  make  every  day 
bright  and  short  for  the  fine  freshman !  The  street 
is  old  as  Nature ;  the  persons  all  have  their  sacred- 
ness.  His  imaginative  life  dresses  all  things  in 
their  best.  His  fears  adorn  the  dark  parts  with 
poetry.  He  has  heard  of  wild  horses  and  of  bad 
boys,  and  with  a  pleasing  terror  he  watches  at  his 
gate  for  the  passing  of  those  varieties  of  each  spe 
cies.  The  first  ride  into  the  country,  the  first  bath 
in  running  water,  the  first  time  the  skates  are  put 
on,  the  first  game  out  of  doors  in  moonlight,  the 
books  of  the  nursery,  are  new  chapters  of  joy.  The 
"  Arabian  Nights'  Entertainments,"  the  "  Seven 
Champions  of  Christendom,"  "  Kobinson  Crusoe," 
and  the  "  Pilgrim's  Progress,"  —  what  mines  of 
thought  and  emotion,  what  a  wardrobe  to  dress  the 
whole  world  withal,  are  in  this  eiicyclopa3dia  of 
young  thinking !  And  so  by  beautiful  traits,  which 
without  art  yet  seem  the  masterpiece  of  wisdom, 
provoking  the  love  that  watches  and  educates  him, 
the  little  pilgrim  prosecutes  the  journey  through 
nature  which  he  has  thus  gaily  begun.  He  grows 
up  the  ornament  and  joy  of  the  house,  which  rings 
to  his  glee,  to  rosy  boyhood. . 

The  household  is  the  home  of  the  man,  as  well 
as  of  the  child.  The  events  that  occur  therein  are 
more  near  and  affecting  to  us  than  those  which 


DOMESTIC  LIFE.  105 

are  sought  in  senates  and  academies.  Domestic 
events  are  certainly  our  affair.  What  are  called 
public  events  may  or  may  not  be  ours.  If  a  man 
wishes  to  acquaint  himself  with  the  real  history  of 
the  world,  with  the  spirit  of  the  age,  he  must  not 
go  first  to  the  state-house  or  the  court-room.  The 
subtle  spirit  of  life  must  be  sought  in  facts  nearer. 
It  is  what  is  done  and  suffered  in  the  house,  in  the 
constitution,  in  the  temperament,  in  the  personal 
history,  that  has  the  profoundest  interest  for  us. 
Fact  is  better  than  fiction,  if  only  we  could  get  pure 
fact.  Do  you  think  any  rhetoric  or  any  romance 
would  get  your  ear  from  the  wise  gypsy  who  could 
tell  straight  on  the  real  fortunes  of  the  man  ;  who 
could  reconcile  your  moral  character  and  your  nat 
ural  history  ;  who  could  explain  your  misfortunes, 
your  fevers,  your  debts,  your  temperament,  your 
habits  of  thought,  your  tastes,  and,  in  every  expla 
nation,  not  sever  you  from  the  whole,  but  unite  you 
to  it  ?  Is  it  not  plain  that  not  in  senates,  or  courts, 
or  chambers  of  commerce,  but  in  the  dwelling-house 
must  the  true  character  and  hope  of  the  time  be 
consulted  ?  These  facts  are,  to  be  sure,  harder  to 
read.  It  is  easier  to  count  the  census,  or  compute 
the  square  extent  of  a  territory,  to  criticise  its  pol 
ity,  books,  art,  than  to  come  to  the  persons  and 
dwellings  of  men  and  read  their  character  and 

C5 

hope  in  their  way  of  life.     Yet  we  are  always  hov- 


106  DOMESTIC  LIFE. 

ering  round  this  better  divination.  In  one  form  or 
another  we  are  always  returning  to  it.  The  physi 
ognomy  and  phrenology  of  to-day  are  rash  and  me 
chanical  systems  enough,  but  they  rest  on  everlast 
ing  foundations.  We  are  sure  that  the  sacred  form 
of  man  is  not  seen  in  these  whimsical,  pitiful,  and 
sinister  masks  (masks  which  we  wear  and  which 
we  meet),  these  bloated  and  shrivelled  bodies,  bald 
heads,  bead  eyes,  short  winds,  puny  and  precarious 
healths,  and  early  deaths.  We  live  ruins  amidst 
ruins.  The  great  facts  are  the  near  ones.  The 
account  of  the  body  is  to  be  sought  in  the  mind. 
The  history  of  your  fortunes  is  written  first  in  your 
life. 

Let  us  come  then  out  of  the  public  square  and 
enter  the  domestic  precinct.  Let  us  go  to  the  sit 
ting-room,  the  table-talk  and  the  expenditure  of  our 
contemporaries.  An  increased  consciousness  of  the 
soul,  you  say,  characterizes  the  period.  Let  us  see 
if  it  has  not  only  arranged  the  atoms  at  the  circum 
ference,  but  the  atoms  at  the  core.  Does  the  house 
hold  obey  an  idea  V  Do  you  see  the  man,  —  his 
form,  genius,  and  aspiration, — in  his  economy?  Is 
that  translucent,  thorough-lighted  ?  There  should 
be  nothing  confounding  and  conventional  in  econ 
omy,  but  the  genius  and  love  of  the  man  so  conspic 
uously  marked  in  all  his  estate  that  the  eye  that 
knew  him  should  read  his  character  in  his  property, 


DOMESTIC  LIFE.  107 

in  his  grounds,  in  Ms  ornaments,  in  every  expense. 
A  man's  money  should  not  follow  the  direction  of 
his  neighbor's  money,  but  should  represent  to  him 
the  things  he  would  willinffliest  do  with  it.  I  am 

O  o 

not  one  thing  and  my  expenditure  another.  My 
expenditure  is  me.  That  our  expenditure  and  our 
character  are  twain,  is  the  vice  of  society. 

We  ask  the  price  of  many  things  in  shops  and 
stalls,  but  some  things  each  man  buys  without  hes 
itation  ;  if  it  were  only  letters  at  the  post-office,  con 
veyance  in  carriages  and  boats,  tools  for  his  'work, 
books  that  are  written  to  his  condition,  etc.  Let 
him  never  buy  anything  else  than  what  he  wants, 
never  subscribe  at  others'  instance,  never  give  un 
willingly.  Thus,  a  scholar  is  a  literary  foundation. 
All  his  expense  is  for  Aristotle,  Fabricius,  Eras 
mus,  and  Petrarch.  Do  not  ask  him  to  help  with 
his  •  savings  young  drapers  or  grocers  to  stock  their 
shops,  or  eager  agents  to  lobby  in  legislatures,  or 
join  a  company  to  build  a  factory  or  a  fishing-craft. 
These  things  are  also  to  be  done,  but  not  by  such 
as  he.  How  could  such  a  book  as  Plato's  Dia 
logues  have  come  down,  but  for  the  sacred  savings 
of  scholars  and  their  fantastic  appropriation  of 
them  ? 

Another  man  is  a  mechanical  genius,  an  inventor 
of  looms,  a  builder  of  ships,  —  a  ship-building  foun 
dation,  and  could  achieve  nothing  if  he  should  dissi* 


108  DOMESTIC  LIFE, 

pate  himself  on  books  or  on  horses.  Another  is  a 
farmer,  an  agricultural  foundation  ;  another  is  a 
chemist,  and  the  same  rule  holds  for  all.  We 
must  not  make  believe  with  our  money,  but  spend 
heartily,  and  buy  up  and  not  down. 

I  am  afraid  that,  so  considered,  our  houses  will 
not  be  found  to  have  unity  and  to  express  the  best 
thought.  The  household,  the  calling,  the  friend 
ships,  of  the  citizen  are  not  homogeneous.  His 
house  ought  to  show  us  his  honest  opinion  of  what 
makes  his  well-being  when  he  rests  among  his  kin 
dred,  and  forgets  all  affectation,  compliance,  and 
even  exertion  of  will.  He  brings  home  whatever 
commodities  and  ornaments  have  for  years  allured 
his  pursuit,  and  his  character  must  be  seen  in  them. 
But  what  idea  predominates  in  our  houses  ?  Thrift 
first,  then  convenience  and  pleasure.  Take  off  all 
the  roofs,  from  street  to  street,  and  we  shall  seldom 
find  the  temple  of  any  higher  god  than  Prudence. 
The  progress  of  domestic  living  has  been  in  clean 
liness,  in  ventilation,  in  health,  in  decorum,  in 
countless  means  and  arts  of  comfort,  in  the  concen 
tration  of  all  the  utilities  of  every  clime  in  each 
house.  They  are  arranged  for  low  benefits.  The 
houses  of  the  rich  are  confectioners'  shops,  where  we 
get  sweetmeats  and  wine ;  the  houses  of  the  poor 
are  imitations  of  these  to  the  extent  of  their  ability. 
"With  these  ends  housekeeping  is  not  beautiful ;  it 


DOMESTIC  LIFE.  109 

cheers  and  raises  neither  the  husband,  the  wife,  nor 
the  child ;  neither  the  host  nor  the  guest ;  it  op 
presses  women.  A  house  kept  to  the  end  of  pru 
dence  is  laborious  without  joy  ;  a  house  kept  to  the 
end  of  display  is  impossible  to  all  but  a  few  women, 
and  their  success  is  dearly  bought. 

If  we  look  at  this  matter  curiously,  it  becomes 
dangerous.  We  need  all  the  force  of  an  idea  to  lift 
this  load,  for  the  wealth  and  multiplication  of  con 
veniences  embarrass  us.  especially  in  northern  cli 
mates.  The  shortest  enumeration  of  our  wants  in 
this  rugged  climate  appalls  us  by  the  multitude  of 
things  not  easy  to  be  done.  And  if  you  look  at 
the  multitude  of  particulars,  one  would  say  :  Good 
housekeeping  is  impossible :  order  is  too  precious  a 
thing  to  dwell  with  men  and  women.  See,  in  fami 
lies  where  there  is  both  substance  and  taste,  at  what 
expense  any  favorite  punctuality  is  maintained.  If 
the  children,  for  example,  are  considered,  dressed, 
dieted,  attended,  kept  in  proper  company,  schooled, 
and  at  home  fostered  by  the  parents,  —  then  does 
the  hospitality  of  the  house  suffer ;  friends  are  less 
carefully  bestowed,  the  daily  table  less  catered.  If 
the  hours  of  meals  are  punctual,  the  apartments  arc 
slovenly.  If  the  linens  and  hangings  are  clean  and 
fine  and  the  furniture  good,  the  yard,  the  garden, 
the  fences  are  neglected.  If  all  are  well  attended, 
then  must  the  master  and  mistress  be  studious  of 


110  DOMESTIC  LIFE. 

particulars  at  the  cost  of  their  own  accomplish 
ments  and  growth ;  or  persons  are  treated  as 
things. 

The  difficulties  to  be  overcome  must  be  freely 
admitted ;  they  are  many  and  great.  Nor  are  they 
to  be  disposed  of  by  any  criticism  or  amendment  of 
particulars  taken  one  at  a  time,  but  only  by  the 
arrangement  of  the  household  to  a  higher  end  than 
those  to  which  our  dwellings  are  usually  built  and 
furnished.  And  is  there  any  calamity  more  grave, 
or  that  more  invokes  the  best  good-will  to  remove 
it,  than  this  ?  —  to  go  from  chamber  to  chamber 
and  see  no  beauty ;  to  find  in  the  housemates  no 
aim ;  to  hear  an  endless  chatter  and  blast ;  to  be 
compelled  to  criticise  ;  to  hear  only  to  dissent  and  to 
be  disgusted  ;  to  find  no  invitation  to  what  is  good 
in  us,  and  no  receptacle  for  what  is  wise  :  —  this 
is  a  great  price  to  pay  for  sweet  bread  and  warm 
lodging,  —  being  defrauded  of  affinity,  of  repose, 
of  genial  culture,  and  the  inmost  presence  of 
beauty. 

It  is  a  sufficient  accusation  of  our  ways  of  living, 
and  certainly  ought  to  open  our  ear  to  every  good- 
minded  reformer,  that  our  idea  of  domestic  well- 
being  now  needs  wealth  to  execute  it.  Give  me  the 
means,  says  the  wife,  and  your  house  shall  not  an 
noy  your  taste  nor  waste  your  time.  On  hearing 
this  we  understand  how  these  Means  have  come  to 


DOMESTIC  LIFE.  Ill 

be  so  omnipotent  011  earth.  And  indeed  the  love  of 
wealth  seems  to  grow  chiefly  out  of  the  root  of  the 
love  of  the  Beautiful.  The  desire  of  gold  is  not  for 
gold.  It  is  not  the  love  of  much  wheat  and  wool 
and  household-stuff.  It  is  the  means  of  freedom 
and  benefit.  We  scorn  shifts  ;  we  desire  the  ele 
gance  of  munificence  ;  we  desire  at  least  to  put  no 
stint  or  limit  on  our  parents,  relatives,  guests  or  de 
pendents  ;  we  desire  to  play  the  benefactor  and  the 
prince  with  our  townsmen,  with  the  stranger  at  the 
gate,  with  the  bard  or  the  beauty,  with  the  man  or 
woman  of  worth  who  alights  at  our  door.  How 
can  we  do  this,  if  the  wants  of  each  day  imprison 
us  in  lucrative  labors,  and  constrain  us  to  a  contin 
ual  vigilance  lest  we  be  betrayed  into  expense  ? 

Give  us  ivealth,  and  the  home  shall  exist.  But 
that  is  a  very  imperfect  and  inglorious  solution  of 
the  problem,  and  therefore  no  solution.  "  Give  us 
wealth"  You  ask  too  much.  Few  have  wealth, 
but  all  must  have  a  home.  Men  are  not  born  rich ; 
and  in  getting  wealth  the  man  is  generally  sacri 
ficed,  and  often  is  sacrificed  without  acquiring 
wealth  at  last.  Besides,  that  cannot  be  the  right 
answer  ;  —  there  are  objections  to  wealth.  Wealth 
is  a  shift.  The  wise  man  angles  with  himself  only, 
and  with  no  meaner  bait.  Our  whole  use  of  wealth 
needs  revision  and  reform.  Generosity  does  not 
consist  in  giving  money  or  money's  worth.  These 


112  DOMESTIC  LIFE. 

so-called  goods  are  only  the  shadow  of  good.  To 
give  money  to  a  sufferer  is  only  a  come-off.  It  is 
only  a  postponement  of  the  real  payment,  a  bribe 
paid  for  silence,  a  credit-system  in  which  a  paper 
promise  to  pay  answers  for  the  time  instead  of  liqui 
dation.  We  owe  to  man  higher  succors  than  food 
and  fire.  We  owe  to  man  man.  If  he  is  sick,  is 
unable,  is  mean-spirited  and  odious,  it  is  because 
there  is  so  much  of  his  nature  which  is  unlawfully 
withholden  from  him.  He  should  be  visited  in  this 
his  prison  with  rebuke  to  the  evil  demons,  with 
manly  encouragement,  with  110  mean-spirited  offer 
of  condolence  because  you  have  not  money,  or  mean 
offer  of  money  as  the  utmost  benefit,  but  by  your 
heroism,  your  purity,  and  your  faith.  You  are  to 
bring  with  jou  that  spirit  which  is  understanding, 
health  and  self-help.  To  offer  him  money  in  lieu 
of  these  is  to  do  him  the  same  wrong  as  when  the 
bridegroom  offers  his  betrothed  virgin  a  sum  of 
money  to  release  him  from  his  engagements.  The 
great  depend  011  their  heart,  not  on  their  purse. 
Genius  and  virtue,  like  diamonds,  are  best  plain- 
set,  —  set  in  lead,  set  in  poverty.  The  greatest  man 
'  in  history  was  the  poorest.  How  was  it  with  the 
captains  and  sages  of  Greece  and  Rome,  with  Soc 
rates,  with  Epaminondas?  Aristides  was  made 
general  receiver  of  Greece,  to  collect  the  tribute 
which  each  state  was  to  furnish  against  the  barba* 


DOMESTIC  LIFE. 

rian.  "  Poor, "  says  Plutarch,  "  when  he  set  about 
it,  poorer  when  he  had  finished  it."  How  was  it 
with  ^Emilius  and  Cato  ?  What  kind  of  a  house 
was  kept  by  Paul  and  John,  by  Milton  and  Mar- 
veil,  by  Samuel  Johnson,  by  Samuel  Adams  in 
Boston,  and  Jean  Paul  Kichter  at  Baireuth  ? 

I  think  it  plain  that  this  voice  of  communities 
and  ages,  '  Give  us  wealth,  and  the  good  household 
shall  exist,'  is  vicious,  and  leaves  the  whole  diffi 
culty  untouched.  It  is  better,  certainly,  in  this 
form,  '  Give  us  your  labor,  and  the  household  be 
gins.'  I  see  not  how  serious  labor,  the  labor  of  all 
and  every  day,  is  to  be  avoided ;  and  many  things 
betoken  a  revolution  of  opinion  and  practice  in 
regard  to  manual  labor  that  may  go  far  to  aid  our 
practical  inquiry.  Another  age  may  divide  the 
manual  labor  of  the  world  more  equally  on  all  the 
members  of  society,  and  so  make  the  labors  of  a 
few  hours  avail  to  the  wants  and  add  to  the  vigor 
of  the  man.  But  the  reform  that  applies  itself  to 
the  household  must  not  be  partial.  It  must  correct 
the  whole  system  of  our  social  living.  It  must  come 
with  plain  living  and  high  thinking ;  it  must  break 
up  caste,  and  put  domestic  service  on  another  foun 
dation.  It  must  come  in  connection  with  a  true 
acceptance  by  each  man  of  his  vocation,  —  not 
chosen  by  his  parents  or  friends,  but  by  his  genius, 
with  earnestness  and  love. 


114  DOMESTIC  LIFE. 

Nor  is  this  redress  so  hopeless  as  it  seems.  Cer 
tainly,  if  we  begin  by  reforming  particulars  of  our 
present  system,  correcting  a  few  evils  and  letting 
the  rest  stand,  we  shall  soon  give  up  in  despair. 
For  our  social  forms  are  very  far  from  truth  and 
equity.  But  the  way  to  set  the  axe  at  the  root  of 
the  tree  is  to  raise  our  aim.  Let  us  understand 
then  that  a  house  should  bear  witness  in  all  its 
economy  that  human  culture  is  the  end  to  which  it 
"is  built  and  garnished.  It  stands  there  under  the 
sun  and  moon  to  ends  analogous,  and  not  less  noble 
than  theirs.  It  is  not  for  festivity,  it  is  not-  for 
sleep  :  but  the  pine  and  the  oak  shall  gladly  descend 
from  the  mountains  to  uphold  the  roof  of  men 
as  faithful  and  necessary  as  themselves ;  to  be  the 
shelter  always  open  to  good  and  true  persons  ;  —  a 
hall  which  shines  with  sincerity,  brows  ever  tran 
quil,  and  a  demeanor  impossible  to  disconcert ; 
whose  inmates  know  what  they  want ;  who  do  not 
ask  your  house  how  theirs  should  be  kept.  They 
have  aims ;  they  cannot  pause  for  trifles.  The  diet 
of  the  house  does  not  create  its  order,  but  knowl 
edge,  character,  action,  absorb  so  much  life  and 
yield  so  much  entertainment  that  the  refectory  has 
ceased  to  be  so  curiously  studied.  With  a  change 
of  aim  has  followed  a  change  of  the  whole  scale  by 
which  men  and  things  were  wont  to  be  measured. 
Wealth  and  poverty  are  seen  for  what  they  are. 


DOMESTIC  LIFE.  115 

It  begins  to  be  seen  that  the  poor  are  only  they 
who  feel  poor,  and  poverty  consists  in  feeling  poor. 
The  rich,  as  we  reckon  them,  and  among  them  the 
very  rich,  —  in  a  true  scale  would  be  found  very 
indigent  and  ragged.  The  great  make  us  feel, 
first  of  all,  the  indifference  of  circumstances.  They 
call  into  activity  the  higher  perceptions  and  sub 
due  the  low  habits  of  comfort  and  luxury ;  but  the 
higher  perceptions  find  their  objects  everywhere  ; 
only  the  low  habits  need  palaces  and  banquets. 

Let  a  man,  then,  say,  My  house  is  here  in  the 
county,  for  the  culture  of  the  county  :  —  an  eating- 
house  and  sleeping-house  for  travellers  it  shall  be 
but  it  shall  be  much  more.  I  pray  you,  O  excel 
lent  wife,  not  to  cumber  yourself  and  me  to  get  a 
rich  dinner  for  this  man  or  this  woman  who  has 
alighted  at  our  gate,  nor  a  bedchamber  made  ready 
at  too  great  a  cost.  These  things,  if  they  are  curi 
ous  in  them,  they  can  get  for  a  dollar  at  any  vil 
lage.  But  let  this  stranger,  if  he  will,  in  your 
looks,  in  your  accent  and  behavior,  read  your  heart 
and  earnestness,  your  thought  and  will,  which  he 
cannot  buy  at  any  price,  in  any  village  or  city ; 
and  which  he  may  well  travel  fifty  miles,  and  dine 
sparely  and  sleep  hard  in  order  to  behold.  Cer 
tainly,  let  the  board  be  spread  and  let  the  bed  be 
dressed  for  the  traveller  ;  but  let  not  the  emphasis 
of  hospitality  lie  in  these  things.  Honor  to  the 


116  DOMESTIC  LIFE. 

house  where  they  are  simple  to  the  verge  of  hard 
ship,  so  that  there  the  intellect  is  awake  and  reads 
the  laws  of  the  universe,  the  soul  worships  truth 
and  love,  honor  and  courtesy  flow  into  all  deeds. 

There  was  never  a  country  in  the  world  which 
could  so  easily  exhibit  this  heroism  as  ours  ;  never 
any  where  the  State  has  made  such  efficient  provis 
ion  for  popular  education,  where  intellectual  enter 
tainment  is  so  within  reach  of  youthful  ambition. 
The  poor  man's  son  is  educated.  There  is  many  a 
humble  house  in  every  city,  in  every  town,  where 
talent  and  taste  and  sometimes  genius  dwell  with 
poverty  and  labor.  Who  has  not  seen,  and  who  can 
see  unmoved,  under  a  low  roof,  the  eager,  blushing 
boys  discharging  as  they  can  their  household  chores, 
and  hastening  into  the  sitting-room  to  the  study  of 
to-morrow's  merciless  lesson,  yet  stealing  time  to 
read  one  chapter  more  of  the  novel  hardly  smuggled 
into  the  tolerance  of  father  and  mother,  —  atoning 
for  the  same  by  some  pages  of  Plutarch  or  Gold 
smith  :  the  warm  sympathy  with  which  they  kindle 
each  other  in  school-yard  or  in  barn  or  wood-shed 
with  scraps  of  poetry  or  song,  with  phrases  of  the 
last  oration,  or  mimicry  of  the  orator ;  the  youthful 
criticism,  on  Sunday,  of  the  sermons  ;  the  school 
declamation  faithfully  rehearsed  at  home,  some 
times  to  the  fatigue,  sometimes  to  the  admiration 
of  sisters ;  the  first  solitary  joys  of  literary  vanity, 


DOMESTIC  LIFE.  H7 

when  the  translation  or  the  theme  has  been  com 
pleted,  sitting  alone  near  the  top  of  the  house  ;  the 
cautious  comparison  of  the  attractive  advertisement 
of  the  arrival  of  Macready,  Booth,  or  Kemble,  or 
of  the  discourse  of  a  well-known  speaker,  with  the 
expense  of  the  entertainment  ;  the  affectionate  de 
light  with  which  they  greet  the  return  of  each  one 
after  the  early  separations  which  school  or  business 
require  ;  the  foresight  with  which,  during  such 
absences,  they  hive  the  honey  which  opportunity 
offers,  for  the  ear  and  imagination  of  the  others  ; 
and  the  unrestrained  glee  with  which  they  disbur 
den  themselves  of  their  early  mental  treasures  when 
the  holidays  bring  them  again  together  ?  What  is 
the  hoop  that  holds  them  stanch  ?  It  is  the  iron 
band  of  poverty,  of  necessity,  of  austerity,  which, 
excluding  them  from  the  sensual  enjoyments  which 
make  other  boys  too  early  old,  has  directed  their 
activity  in  safe  and  right  channels,  and  made  them, 
despite  themselves,  reverers  of  the  grand,  the  beau 
tiful,  and  the  good.  Ah  !  short-sighted  students 
of  books,  of  Nature,  and  of  man  !  too  happy,  could 
they  know  their  advantages.  They  pine  for  free 
dom  from  that  mild  parental  yoke  ;  they  sigh  for 
fine  clothes,  for  rides,  for  the  theatre,  and  prema 
ture  freedom  and  dissipation,  which  others  possess. 
Woe  to  them  if  their  wishes  were  crowned  I 


angels  that  dwell  with  them  and  are  weaving  lau- 


118  DOMESTIC  LIFE. 

rels  of  life  for  their  youthful  brows,  are  Toil  and 
Want,  and  Truth,  and  Mutual  Faith. 

In  many  parts  of  true  economy  a  cheering  lesson 
may  be  learned  from  the  mode  of  life  and  manners 
of  the  later  Romans,  as  described  to  us  in  the  letters 
of  the  younger  Pliny.  Nor  can  I  resist  the  temp 
tation  of  quoting  so  trite  an  instance  as  the  noble 
housekeeping  of  Lord  Falkland  in  Clarendon :  "  His 
house  bein£  within  little  more  than  ten  miles  from 

O 

Oxford,  he  contracted  familiarity  and  friendship 
with  the  most  polite  and  accurate  men  of  that  Uni 
versity,  who  found  such  an  immenseness  of  wit  and 
such  a  solidity  of  judgment  in  him,  so  infinite  a 
fancy,  bound  in  by  a  most  logical  ratiocination,  such 
a  vast  knowledge  that  he  was  not  ignorant  in  any 
thing,  yet  such  an  excessive  humility,  as  if  he  had 
known  nothing,  that  they  frequently  resorted  and 
dwelt  with  him,  as  in  a  college  situated  in  a  purer 
air ;  so  that  his  house  was  a  university  in  a  less 
volume,  whither  they  came,  not  so  much  for  repose 
as  study,  and  to  examine  and  refine  those  grosser 
propositions  which  laziness  and  consent  made  cur 
rent  in  vulgar  conversation." 

I  honor  that  man  whose  ambition  it  is,  not  to  win 
laurels  in  the  if&ite  or  the  army,  not  to  be  a  jurist 
or  a  naturalist,  not'io  be  a  poet  or  a  commander, 
but  to  l)e  a  master  of  living  well,  and  to  administer 
the  offices  of  master  or  servant,  of  husband,  father, 


DOMESTIC  LIFE.  119 

and  friend.  But  it  requires  as  much  breadth  of 
power  for  this  as  for  those  other  functions,  —  as 
much,  or  more,  —  and  the  reason  for  the  failure  is 
the  same.  I  think  the  vice  of  our  housekeeping  is 
that  it  does  not  hold  man  sacred.  The  vice  of  gov 
ernment,  the  vice  of  education,  the  vice  of  religion, 
is  one  with  that  of  private  life. 

In  the  old  fables  we  used  to  read  of  a  cloak 
brought  from  fairy-land  as  a  gift  for  the  fairest  and 
purest  in  Prince  Arthur's  court.  It  was  to  be  her 
prize  whom  it  would  fit.  Every  one  was  eager  to 
try  it  on,  but  it  would  fit  nobody  :  for  one  it  was 
a  world  too  wide,  for  the  next  it  dragged  011  the 
ground,  and  for  the  third  it  shrunk  to  a  scarf. 
They,  of  course,  said  that  the  devil  was  in  the  man 
tle,  for  really  the  truth  was  in  the  mantle,  and  was 
exposing  the  ugliness  which  each  would  fain  con 
ceal.  All  drew  back  with  terror  from  the  garment. 
The  innocent  Genelas  alone  could  wear  it.  In  like 
manner,  every  man  is  provided  in  his  thought  with 
a  measure  of  man  which  he  applies  to  every  passen 
ger.  Unhappily,  not  one  in  many  thousands  conies 
up  to  the  stature  and  proportions  of  the  model. 
Neither  does  the  measurer  himself,  neither  do  the 
people  in  the  street ;  neither  do  the®select  individ 
uals  whom  he  admires, — the  heroes  of  the  race. 
When  he  inspects  them  critically,  he  discovers  that 
their  aims  are  low,  that  they  are  too  quickly  satis- 


120  DOMESTIC  LIFE. 

iiecl.  He  observes  the  swiftness  with  which  life 
culminates,  and  the  humility  of  the  expectations  of 
the  greatest  part  of  men.  To  each  occurs,  soon  after 
the  age  of  puberty,  some  event  or  society  or  way 
of  living,  which  becomes  the  crisis  of  life  and  the 
chief  fact  in  their  history.  In  woman,  it  is  love  and 
marriage  (which  is  more  reasonable)  ;  and  yet  it  is 
pitiful  to  date  and  measure  all  the  facts  and  sequel 
of  an  unfolding  life  from  such  a  youthful  and  gen 
erally  inconsiderate  period  as  the  age  of  courtship 
and  marriage.  In  men,  it  is  their  place  of  educa 
tion,  choice  of  an  employment,  settlement  in  a  town, 
or  removal  to  the  East  or  to  the  West,  or  some 
other  magnified  trifle  which  makes  the  meridian 
moment,  and  all  the  after  years  and  actions  only 
derive  interest  from  their  relation  to  that.  Hence 
it  comes  that  we  soon  catch  the  trick  of  each  man's 
conversation,  and  knowing  his  two  or  three  main 
facts,  anticipate  what  he  thinks  of  each  new  topic 
that  rises.  It  is  scarcely  less  perceivable  in  edu 
cated  men,  so  called,  than  in  the  uneducated.  I 
have  seen  finely  endowed  men  at  college  festivals, 
ten,  twenty  years  after  they  had  left  the  halls,  re 
turning,  as  it  seemed,  the  same  boys  who  went 
away.  The  same  jokes  pleased,  the  same  straws 
tickled  ;  the  manhood  and  offices  they  brought 
thither  at  this  return  seemed  mere  ornamental 
masks  ;  underneath  they  were  boys  yet.  We  nevei 


DOMESTIC  LIFE.  121 

come  to  be  citizens  of  the  world,  but  are  still  villa 
gers,  who  think  that  every  thing  in  their  petty  town 
is  a  little  superior  to  the  same  thing  anywhere  else. 
In  each  the  circumstance  signalized  differs,  but  in 
each  it  is  made  the  coals  of  an  ever-burning  ego 
tism.  In  one,  it  was  his  going  to  sea ;  in  a  second, 
the  difficulties  he  combated  in  going  to  college ;  in 
a  third,  his  journey  to  the  West,  or  his  voyage  to 
Canton  ;  in  a  fourth,  his  coming  out  of  the  Quaker 
Society ;  in  a  fifth,  his  new  diet  and  regimen  ;  in  a 
sixth,  his  coming  forth  from  the  abolition  organiza 
tions  ;  and  in  a  seventh,  his  going  into  them.  It 
is  a  life  of  toys  and  trinkets.  We  are  too  easily 
pleased. 

I  think  this  sad  result  appears  in  the  manners. 
The  men  we  see  in  each  other  do  not  give  us  the 
image  and  likeness  of  man.  The  men  we  see 
are  whipped  through  the  world  ;  they  are  harried, 
wrinkled,  anxious ;  they  all  seem  the  hacks  of  some 
invisible  riders.  How  seldom  do  we  behold  tran 
quillity  !  We  have  never  yet  seen  a  man.  We  do 
not  know  the  majestic  manners  that  belong  to  him, 
which  appease  and  exalt  the  beholder.  There  are 
no  divine  persons  with  us,  and  the  multitude  do  not 
hasten  to  be  divine.  And  yet  we  hold  fast,  all 
our  lives  long,  a  faith  in  a  better  life,  in  better 
men,  in  clean  and  noble  relations,  notwithstanding 
our  total  inexperience  of  a  true  society.  Certainly 


122  DOMESTIC  LIFE. 

this  was  not  tlie  intention  of  nature,  to  produce, 
with  all  this  immense  expenditure  of  means  and 
power,  so  cheap  and  humble  a  result.  The  aspira 
tions  in  the  heart  after  the  good  and  true  teach  us 
better,  —  nay,  the  men  themselves  suggest  a  better 
life. 

Every  individual  nature  has  its  own  beauty. 
One  is  struck  in  every  company,  at  every  fireside, 
with  the  riches  of  nature,  when  he  hears  so  many 
new  tones,  all  musical,  sees  in  each  person  original 
manners,  which  have  a  proper  and  peculiar  charm, 
and  reads  new  expressions  of  face.  He  perceives 
that  nature  has  laid  for  each  the  foundations  of 
a  divine  building,  if  the  soul 'will  build  thereon. 
There  is  110  face,  no  form,  which  one  cannot  in 
fancy  associate  with  great  power  of  intellect  or 
with  generosity  of  soul.  In  our  experience,  to  be 
sure,  beauty  is  not,  as  it  ought  to  be,  the  dower 
of  man  and  of  woman  as  invariably  as  sensation. 
Beauty  is,  even  in  the  beautiful,  occasional,  —  or, 
as  one  has  said,  culminating  and  perfect  only  a 
single  moment,  before  which  it  is  unripe,  and  after 
which  it  is  on  the  wane.  But  beauty  is  never  quite 
absent  from  our  eyes.  Every  face,  every  figure, 
suggests  its  own  right  and  .sound  estate.  Our 
friends  are  not  their  own  highest  form.  But  let 
the  hearts  they  have  agitated  witness  what  power 
has  lurked  in  the  traits  of  these  structures  of  clay 


DOMESTIC  LIFE.  123 

that  pass  and  repass  us !  The  secret  power  of  form 
over  the  imagination  and  affections  transcends  all 
our  philosophy.  The  first  glance  we  meet  may  sat 
isfy  as  that  matter  is  the  vehicle  of  higher  powers 
than  its  own,  and  that  no  laws  of  line  or  surface 
can  ever  account  for  the  inexhaustible  expressive 
ness  of  form.  We  see  heads  that  turn  on  the  pivot 
of  the  spine,  —  no  more  ;  and  we  see  heads  that 
seem  to  turn  on  a  pivot  as  deep  as  the  axle  of  the 
world,  —  so  slow,  and  lazily,  and  great,  they  move. 
We  see  on  the  lip  of  our  companion  the  presence 
or  absence  of  the  great  masters  of  thought  and 
poetry  to  his  mind.  We  read  in  his  brow,  on  meet 
ing  him  after  many  years,  that  he  is  where  we  left 
him,  or  that  he  has  made  great  strides. 

Whilst  thus  nature  and  the  hints  we  draw  from 
man  suggest  a  true  and  lofty  life,  a  household  equal 
to  the  beauty  and  grandeur  of  this  world,  especially 
we  learn  the  same  lesson  from  those  best  relations 
to  individual  men  which  the  heart  is  always  prompt 
ing  us  to  form.  Happy  will  that  house  be  in  which 
the  relations  are  formed  from  character ;  after  the 
highest,  and  not  after  the  lowest  order  ;  the  house 
in  which  character  marries,  and  not  confusion  and 
a  miscellany  of  unavowable  motives.  Then  shall 
marriage  be  a  covenant  to  secure  to  either  party 
the  sweetness  and  honor  of  being  a  calm,  continu 
ing,  inevitable  benefactor  to  the  other.  Yes,  and 


124  DOMESTIC  LIFE. 

tire  sufficient  reply  to  the  sceptic  who  doubts  the 
competence  of  man  to  elevate  and  to  be  elevated  is 
in  that  desire  and  power  to  stand  in  joyful  and  en 
nobling  intercourse  with  individuals,  which  makes 
the  faith  and  the  practice  of  all  reasonable  men. 

The  ornament  of  a  house  is  the  friends  who  fre 
quent  it.  There  is  no  event  greater  in  life  than  the 
appearance  of  new  persons  about  our  hearth,  except 
it  be  the  progress  of  the  character  which  draws 
them.  It  has  been  finely  added  by  Landor  to  his 
definition  of  the  great  man,  "  It  is  he  who  can  call 
together  the  most  select  company  when  it  pleases 
him."  A  verse  of  the  old  Greek  Meiiander  re 
mains,  which  runs  in  translation  :  — 

"  Not  on  the  store  of  sprightly  wine, 

Nor  plenty  of  delicious  meats, 
Though  generous  Nature  did  design 

To  court  us  with  perpetual  treats,  — 
'T  is  not  on  these  we  for  content  depend, 

So  much  as  on  the  shadow  of  a  Friend." 

It  is  the  happiness  which,  where  it  is  truly 
known,  postpones  all  other  satisfactions,  and  makes 
politics  and  commerce  and  churches  cheap.  For 
we  figure  to  ourselves,  —  do  we  not  ?  —  that  when 
men  shall  meet  as  they  should,  as  states  meet,  — 
each  a  benefactor,  a  shower  of  falling  stars,  so  rich 
with  deeds,  with  thoughts,  with  so  much  accomplish 
ment,  —  it  shall  be  the  festival  of  nature,  which  all 


DOMESTIC  LIFE.  125 

things  symbolize  ;  and  perhaps  Love  is  only  the 
highest  symbol  of  Friendship,  as  all  other  things 
seem  symbols  of  love.  In  the  progress  of  each 
man's  character,  his  relations  to  the  best  men,  which 
at  first  seem  only  the  romances  of  youth,  acquire  a 
graver  importance ;  and  he  will  have  learned  the 
lesson  of  life  who  is  skilful  in  the  ethics  of  friend 
ship. 

Beyond  its  primary  ends  of  the  conjugal,  paren 
tal,  and  amicable  relations,  the  household  should 
cherish  the  beautiful  arts  and  the  sentiment  of  ven 
eration. 

1.  Whatever  brings  the  dweller  into  a  finer  life, 
what  educates  his  eye,  or  ear,  or  hand,  whatever 
purifies  and  enlarges  him,  may  well  find  place  there. 
And  yet  let  him  not  think  that  a  property  in  beauti 
ful  objects  is  necessary  to  his  apprehension  of  them, 
and  seek  to  turn  his  house  into  a  museum.  Rather 
let  the  noble  practice  of  the  Greeks  find  place  in 
our  societ}7,  and  let  the  creations  of  the  plastic  arts 
be  collected  with  care  in  galleries  by  the  piety  and 
taste  of  the  people,  and  yielded  as  freely  as  the  sun 
light  to  all.  Meantime,  be  it  remembered,  we  are 
artists  ourselves,  and  competitors,  each  one,  with 
Phidias  and  Raphael  in  the  production  of  what  is 
graceful  or  grand.;  The  fountain  of  beauty  is  the 
heart,  and  every  generous  thought  illustrates  the 


126  DOMESTIC  LIFE. 

walls  of  your  chamber.  Why  should  we  owe  our 
power  of  attracting  our  friends  to  pictures  and 
vases,  to  cameo:*  and  architecture?  Why  should 
we  convert  ourselves  into  showmen  and  appendages 
to  our  fine  houses  and  our  works  of  art?  If  by 
love  and  nobleness  we  take  up  into  ourselves  the 
beauty  we  admire,  we  shall  spend  it  again  on  all 
around  us.  The  man,  the  woman,  needs  not  the 
embellishment  of  canvas  and  marble,  whose  every 
act  is  a  subject  for  the  sculptor,  and  to  whose  eye 
the  gods  and  nymphs  never  appear  ancient,  for  they 
know  by  heart  the  whole  instinct  of  majesty. 

I  do  not  undervalue  the  fine  instruction  which 
statues  and  pictures  give.  But  I  think  the  public 
museum  in  each  town  will  one  day  relieve  the 
private  house  of  this  charge  of  owning  and  exhibit 
ing  them.  I  go  to  Rome  and  see  on  the  walls  of 
the  Vatican  the  Transfiguration,  painted  by  .Ra 
phael,  reckoned  the  first  picture  in  the  world ;  or 
in  the  Sistine  Chapel  I  see  the  grand  sibyls  and 
prophets,  painted  in  i'resuo  by  Michel  Angelo,  — 
which  have  every  day  now  for  three  hundred  years 
inflamed  the  imagination  and  exalted  the  piety  of 
what  vast  multitudes  of  men  of  all  nations  !  I  wish 
to  bring  home  to  my  children  and  my  friends  copies 
of  these  admirable  forms,  which  I  can  find  in  the 
shops  of  the  engravers ;  but  I  do  not  wish  the  vex 
ation  of  owning  them.  I  wish  to  find  in  my  own 


DOMESTIC  LIFE.  127 

town  a  library  and  museum  which  is  the  property 
of  the  town,  where  I  can  deposit  this  precious  treas 
ure,  where  I  and  my  children  can  see  it  from  time 
to  time,  and  where  it  has  its  proper  place  among 
hundreds  of  such  donations  from  other  citizens  who 
have  brought  thither  whatever  articles  they  have 
judged  to  be  in  their  nature  rather  a  public  than  a 
private  property. 

A  collection  of  this  kind,  the  property  of  each 
town,  would  dignify  the  town,  and  we  should  love 
and  respect  our  neighbors  more.  Obviously,  it 
would  be  easy  for  every  town  to  discharge  this 
truly  municipal  duty.  Every  one  of  us  would 
gladly  contribute  his  share  ;  and  the  more  gladly, 
the  more  considerable  the  institution  had  become. 

2.  Certainly,  not  aloof  from  this  homage  to 
beauty,  but  in  strict  connection  therewith,  the  house 
will  come  to  be  esteemed  a  Sanctuary.  The  lan 
guage  of  a  ruder  age  has  given  to  common  law  the 
maxim  that  every  man's  house  is  his  castle :  the 
progress  of  truth  will  make  every  house  a  shrine. 
Will  not  man  one  day  open  his  eyes  and  see  how 
dear  he  is  to  the  soul  of  Nature,  —  how  near  it  is 
to  him  ?  Will  he  not  see,  through  all  he  miscalls 
accident,  that  Law  prevails  for  ever  and  ever  ;  that 
his  private  being  is  a  part  of  it ;  that  its  home  is 
in  his  own  unsounded  heart ;  that  his  economy,  his 


128  DOMESTIC  LIFE. 

labor,  his  good  and  bad  fortune,  his  health  and 
manners  are  all  a  curious  and  exact  demonstration  in 
miniature  of  the  Genius  of  the  Eternal  Providence  ? 
When  he  perceives  the  Law,  he  ceases  to  despond. 
Whilst  he  sees  it,  every  thought  and  act  is  raised, 
and  becomes  an  act  of  religion.  Does  the  consecra 
tion  of  Sunday  confess  the  desecration  of  the  entire 
week?  Does  the  consecration  of  the  church  con 
fess  the  profanation  of  the  house?  Let  us  read 
the  incantation  backward.  Let  the  man  stand  on 
his  feet.  Let  religion  cease  to  be  occasional ;  and 
the  pulses  of  thought  that  go  to  the  borders  of  the 
universe,  let  them  proceed  from  the  bosom  of  the 
Household. 

These  are  the  consolations,  —  these  are  the  ends 
to  which  the  household  is  instituted  and  the  rooftree 
stands.  If  these  are  sought  and  in  any  good  degree 
attained,  can  the  State,  can  commerce,  can  climate, 
can  the  labor  of  many  for  one,  yield  anything  better, 
or  half  as  good  ?  Beside  these  aims,  Society  is 
weak  and  the  State  an  intrusion.  I  think  that  the 
heroism  which  at  this  day  would  make  011  us  the 
impression  of  Epaminondas  and  Phocion  must  be 
that  of  a  domestic  conqueror.  He  who  shall  bravely 
and  gracefully  subdue  this  Gorgon  of  Convention 
and  Fashion,  and  show  men  how  to  lead  a  clean, 
handsome,  and  heroic  life  amid  the  beggarly  ele 
ments  of  our  cities  and  villages  ;  whoso  shall  teach 


DOMESTIC  LIFE.  129 

me  how  to  eat  my  meat  and  take  my  repose  and 
deal  with  men,  without  any  shame  following,  will 
restore  the  life  of  man  to  splendor,  and  make  his 
own  name  dear  to  all  history. 

VOL.    VII.  9 


FARMING. 


FARMING. 


THE  glory  of  the  farmer  is  that,  in  the  division 
of  labors,  it  is  his  part  to  create.  All  trade  rests  at 
last  on  his  primitive  activity.  He  stands  close  to 
nature  ;  he  obtains  from  the  earth  the  bread  and 
the  meat.  The  food  which  was  not,  he  causes  to 
be.  The  first  farmer  was  the  first  man,  and  all  his 
toric  nobility  rests  on  possession  and  use  of  land. 
Men  do  not  like  hard  work,  but  every  man  has  an 
exceptional  respect  for  "tillage,  and  a  feeling  that 
this  is  the  original  calling  of  his  race,  that  he  him 
self  is  only  excused  from  it  by  some  circumstance 
which  made  him  delegate  it  for  a  time  to  other 
hands.  If  he  have  not  some  skill  which  recom 
mends  him  to  the  farmer,  some  product  for  which 
the  farmer  will  give  him  corn,  he  must  himself  re 
turn  into  his  due  place  among  the  planters.  And 
the  profession  has  in  all  eyes  its  ancient  charm,  as 
standing  nearest  to  God,  the  first  cause. 

Then  the  beauty  of  nature,  the  tranquillity  and 
innocence  of  the  countryman,  his  independence,  and 
his  pleasing  arts,  —  the  care  of  bees,  of  po.ultry,  of 


134  FARMING. 

sheep,  of  cows,  the  dairy,  the  care  of  hay,  of  fruits, 
of  orchards  and  forests,  and  the  reaction  of  these  on 
the  workman,  in  giving  him  a  strength  and  plain 
dignity  like  the  face  and  manners  of  nature,  —  all 
men  acknowledge.  All  men  keep  the  farm  in 
reserve  as  an  asylum  where,  in  case  of  mischance, 
to  hide  their  poverty,  —  or  a  solitude,  if  they  do 
not  succeed  in  society.  And  who  knows  how  many 
glances  of  remorse  are  turned  this  way  from  the 
bankrupts  of  trade,  from  mortified  pleaders  in 
courts  and  senates,  or  from  the  victims  of  idleness 
and  pleasure  ?  Poisoned  by  town  life  and  town 
vices,  the  sufferer  resolves  ;  '  Well,  my  children, 
whom  I  have  injured,  shall  go  back  to  the  land,  to 
be  recruited  and  cured  by  that  which  should  have 
been  my  nursery,  and  now  shall  be  their  hospital.' 

The  farmer's  office  is  precise  and  important,  but 
you  must  not  try  to  paint  him  in  rose-color ;  you 
cannot  make  pretty  compliments  to  fate  and  gravi 
tation,  whose  minister  he  is.  Pie  represents  the 
necessities.  It  is  the  beauty  of  the  great  economy 
of  the  world  that  makes  his  comeliness.  He  bends 
to  the  order  of  the  seasons,  the  weather,  the  soils 
and  crops,  as  the  sails  of  a  ship  bend  to  the  wind. 
He  represents  continuous  hard  labor,  year  in,  year 
out,  and  small  gains.  He  is  a  slow  person,  timed 
to  nature,  and  not  to  city  watches.  He  takes  the 
pace  of  seasons,  plants,  and  chemistry.  Nature 


FARMING,  135 

never  hurries  :  atom  by  atom,  little  by  little,  she 
achieves  her  work.  The  lesson  one  learns  in  fish 
ing,  yachting,  hunting,  or  planting,  is  the  manners 
of  Nature ;  patience  with  the  delays  of  wind  and 
sun,  delays  of  the  seasons,  bad  weather,  excess  or 
lack  of  water,  —  patience  with  the  slowness  of  our 
feet,  with  the  parsimony  of  our  strength,  with  the 
largeness  of  sea  and  land  we  must  traverse,  etc. 
The  farmer  times  himself  to  Nature,  and  acquires 
that  livelong  patience  which  belongs  to  her.  Slow, 
narrow  man,  his  rule  is  that  the  earth  shall  feed 
and  clothe  him  ;  and  he  must  wait  for  his  crop  to 
grow.  His  entertainments,  his  liberties  and  his 
spending  must  be  on  a  farmer's  scale,  and  not  on  a 
merchant's.  It  were  as  false  for  farmers  to  use  a 
wholesale  and  massy  expense,  as  for  states  to  use  a 
minute  economy.  But  if  thus  pinched  on  one  side, 
he  has  compensatory  advantages.  He  is  permanent, 
clings  to  his  land  as  the  rocks  do.  In  the  town 
where  I  live,  farms  remain  in  the  same  families  for 
seven  and  eight  generations ;  and  most  of  the 
first  settlers  (in  1635),  should  they  reappear  on 
the  farms  to-day,  would  find  their  own  blood  and 
names  still  in  possession.  And  the  like  fact  holds 
in  the  surrounding  towns. 

This  hard  work  will  always  be  done  by  one  kind 
of  man ;  not  by  scheming  speculators,  nor  by  sol 
diers,  nor  professors,  nor  readers  of  Tennyson ;  but 


136  FARMING. 

by  men  of  endurance  —  deep-chested,  long-winded, 
tough,  slow  and  sure,  and  timely.  The  farmer  has 
a  great  health,  and  the  appetite  of  health,  and 
means  to  his  end ;  he  has  broad  lands  for  his  home, 
wood  to  burn  great  fires,  plenty  of  plain  food  ;  his 
milk  at  least  is  unwaterecl ;  and  for  sleep,  he  has 
cheaper  and  better  and  more  of  it  than  citizens. 

He  has  grave  trusts  confided  to  him.  In  the 
great  household  of  Nature,  the  farmer  stands  at 
the  door  of  the  bread-room,  and  weighs  to  each 
his  loaf.  It  is  for  him  to  say  whether  men  shall 
marry  or  not.  Early  marriages  and  the  number 
of  births  are  indissolubly  connected  with  abundance 
of  food ;  or,  as  Burke  said,  "  Man  breeds  at  the 
mouth."  Then  he  is  the  Board  of  Quarantine. 
The  farmer  is  a  hoarded  capital  of  health,  as  the 
farm  is  the  capital  of  wealth ;  and  it  is  from  him 
that  the  health  and  power,  moral  and  intellectual, 
of  the  cities  came.  The  city  is  always  recruited 
from  the  country.  The  men  in  cities  who  are  the 
centres  of  energy,  the  driving-wheels  of  trade,  pol 
itics,  or  practical  arts,  and  the  women  of  beauty 
and  genius,  are  the  children  or  grandchildren  of 
farmers,  and  are  spending  the  energies  which  their 
fathers'  hardy,  silent  life  accumulated  in  frosty  fur 
rows,  in  poverty,  necessity,  and  darkness. 

He  is  the  continuous  benefactor.  He  who  digs 
a  well,  constructs  a  stone  fountain,  plants  a  grove 


FARMING.  137 

of  trees  by  the  roadside,  plants  an  orchard,  builds 
a  durable  house,  reclaims  a  swamp,  or  so  much  as 
puts  a  stone  seat  by  the  wayside,  makes  the  land 
so  far  lovely  and  desirable,  makes  a  fortune  which 
he  cannot  carry  away  with  him,  but  which  is  useful 
to  his  country  long  afterwards.  The  man  that 
works  at  home  helps  society  at  large  with  some 
what  more  of  certainty  than  he  who  devotes  him 
self  to  charities.  If  it  be  true  that,  not  by  votes 
of  political  parties  but  by  the  eternal  laws  of  polit 
ical  economy,  slaves  are  driven  out  of  a  slave  State 
as  fast  as  it  is  surrounded  by  free  States,  then  the 
true  abolitionist  is  the  farmer,  who,  heedless  of 
laws  and  constitutions,  stands  all  day  in  the  field, 
investing  his  labor  in  the  land,  and  making  a  prod 
uct  with  which  no  forced  labor  can  compete. 

We  commonly  say  that  the  rich  man  can  speak 
the  truth,  can  afford  honesty,  can  afford  indepen 
dence  of  opinion  and  action  ;  —  and  that  is  the  the 
ory  of  nobility.  But  it  is  the  rich  man  in  a  true 
sense,  that  is  to  say,  net  the  man  of  large  income 
and  large  expenditure,  but  solely  the  man  whose 
outlay  is  less  than  his  income  and  is  steadily  kept  so. 

In  English  factories,  the  boy  that  watches  the 
loom,  to  tie  the  thread  when  the  wheel  stops  to  in 
dicate  that  a  thread  is  broken,  is  called  a  minder. 
And  in  this  great  factory  of  our  Copernican  globe, 
shifting  its  slides,  rotating  its  constellations,  times, 


138  FARMING. 

and  tides,  bringing  now  the  day  of  planting,  then 
of  watering,  then  of  weeding,  then  of  reaping,  then 
of  curing  and  storing,  —  ths  farmer  is  the  minder. 
His  machine  is  of  colossal  proportions ;  the  diam 
eter  of  the  water-wheel,  the  arms  of  the  levers,  the 
power  of  the  battery,  are  out  of  all  mechanic  meas- 
nre  ;  and  it  takes  him  long  to  understand  its  parts 
and  its  working.  This  pump  never  "  sucks  ;"  these 
screws  are  never  loose ;  this  machine  is  never  out  of 
gear  ;  the  vat  and  piston,  wheels  and  tires,  never 
wear  out,  but  are  self -repairing. 

Who  are  the  farmer's  servants  ?  Not  the  Irish, 
nor  the  coolies,  but  Geology  and  Chemistry,  the 
quarry  of  the  air,  the  water  of  the  brook,  the  light 
ning  of  the  cloud,  the  castings  of  the  worm,  the 
plough  of  the  frost.  Long  before  he  was  born,  the 
sun  of  ages  decomposed  the  rocks,  mellowed  his 
land,  soaked  it  with  light  and  heat,  covered  it  with 
vegetable  film,  then  with  forests,  and  accumulated 
the  sphagnum  whose  decays  made  the  peat  of  his 
meadow. 

Science  has  shown  the  great  circles  in  which 
nature  works ;  the  manner  in  which  marine  plants 
balance  the  marine  animals,  as  the  land  plants  sup 
ply  the  oxygen  which  the  animals  consume,  and 
the  animals  the  carbon  which  the  plants  absorb. 
These  activities  are  incessant.  Nature  works  on 
a  method  of  oil  for  each  and  each  for  all.  The 


FARMING.  139 

strain  that  is  made  on  one  point  bears  on  every 
arch  and  foundation  of  the  structure.  There  is  a 
perfect  solidarity.  You  cannot  detach  an  atom 
from  its  holdings,  or  strip  off  from  it  the  electric 
ity,  gravitation,  chemic  affinity,  or  the  relation  to 
light  and  heat,  and  leave  the  atom  bare.  No,  it 
brings  with  it  its  universal  ties. 

Nature,  like  a  cautious  testator,  ties  up  her  estate 
so  as  not  to  bestow  it  all  on  one  generation,  but  has 
a  forelooking  tenderness  and  equal  regard  to  the 
next  and  the  next,  and  the  fourth  and  the  fortieth 
age.  There  lie  the  inexhaustible  magazines.  The 
eternal  rocks,  as  we  call  them,  have  held  their  oxy 
gen  or  lime  undiminished,  entire,  as  it  was.  No 
particle  of  oxygen  can  rust  or  wear,  but  has  the 
same  energy  as  on  the  first  morning.  The  good 
rocks,  those  patient  waiters,  say  to  him  :  '  We  have 
the  sacred  power  as  we  received  it.  We  have  not 
failed  of  our  trust,  and  now,  —  when  in  our  im 
mense  day  the  hour  is  at  last  struck — take  the  gas 
we  have  hoarded,  mingle  it  with  water,  and  let  it 
be  free  to  grow  in  plants  and  animals  and  obey  the 
thought  of  man.' 

The  earth  works  for  him ;  the  earth  is  a  machine 
which  yields  almost  gratuitous  service  to  every  ap 
plication  of  intellect.  Every  plant  is  a  manufac 
turer  of  soil.  In  the  stomach  of  the  plant  develop 
ment  begins.  The  tree  can  draw  on  the  whole  air, 


140  FARMING. 

the  whole  earth,  on  all  the  rolling  main.  The  plant 
is  all  suction-pipe,  —  imbibing  from  the  ground  by 
its  root,  from  the  air  by  its  leaves,  with  all  its 
might. 

The  air  works  for  him.  The  atmosphere,  a  sharp 
solvent,  drinks  the  essence  and  spirit  of  every  solid 
on  the  globe.  —  a  menstruum  which  melts  the 
mountains  into  it.  Air  is  matter  subdued  by  heat. 
As  the  sea  is  the  grand  receptacle  of  all  rivers,  so 
the  air  is  the  receptacle  from  which  all  things 
spring,  and  into  which  they  all  return.  The  invis 
ible  and  creeping  air  takes  form  and  solid  mass. 
Our  senses  are  sceptics,  and  believe  only  the  im 
pression  of  the  moment,  and  do  not  believe  the 
chemical  fact  that  these  hu^e  mountain-chains  are 

O 

made  up  of  gases  and  rolling  wind.  But  Nature  is 
as  subtle  as  she  is  strong.  She  turns  her  capital 
day  by  day  :  deals  never  with  dead,  but  ever  with 
quick  subjects.  All  things  are  flowing,  even  those 
that  seem  immovable.  The  adamant  is  always 
passing  into  smoke.  The  plants  imbibe  the  mate 
rials  which  they  want  from  the  air  and  the  ground. 
They  burn,  that  is,  exhale  and  decompose  their 
own  bodies  into  the  air  and  earth  acrain.  The  an- 

o 

imal  burns,  or  undergoes  the  like  perpetual  con 
sumption.  The  earth  burns,  the  mountains  burn 
and  decompose,  slower,  but  incessantly.  It  is  al 
most  inevitable  to  push  the  generalization  up  into 


FARMING.  141 

higher  parts  of  nature,  rank  over  rank  into  sen 
tient  beings.  Nations  burn  with  internal  fire  of 
thought  and  affection,  which  wastes  while  it  works. 
We  shall  find  finer  combustion  and  finer  fuel.  In 
tellect  is  a  fire  :  rash  and  pitiless  it  melts  this  won 
derful  bone-house  which  is  called  man.  Genius 
even,  as  it  is  the  greatest  good,  is  the  greatest  harm. 
Whilst  all  thus  burns,  —  the  universe  in  a  blaze 
kindled  from  the  torch  of  the  sun,  —  it  needs  a  per 
petual  tempering,  a  phlegm,  a  sleep,  atmospheres 
of  azote,  deluges  of  water,  to  check  the  fury  of  the 
conflagration  ;  a  hoarding  to  check  the  spending, 
a  centripetence  equal  to  the  centrifugence ;  and 
this  is  invariably  supplied. 

The  railroad  dirt-cars  are  good  excavators,  but 
there  is  no  porter  like  Gravitation,  who  will  bring 
down  any  weights  which  man  cannot  carry,  and 
if  he  wants  aid,  knows  where  to  find  his  fellow 
laborers.  Water  works  in  masses,  and  sets  its  ir 
resistible  shoulder  to  your  mills  or  your  ships,  or 
transports  vast  boulders  of  rock  in  its  iceberg  a 
thousand  miles.  But  its  far  greater  power  depends 
on  its  talent  of  becoming  little,  and  entering  the 
smallest  holes  and  pores.  By  this  agency,  carrying 
in  solution  elements  needful  to  every  plant,  the 
vegetable  world  exists. 

But  as  I  said,  we  must  not  paint  the  farmer  in 
rose -color.  Whilst  these  grand  energies  have 


142  FARMING. 

wrought  for  him  and  made  his  task  possible,  he 
is  habitually  engaged  in  small  economies,  and  is 
taught  the  power  that  lurks  in  petty  things.  Great 
is  the  force  of  a  few  simple  arrangements ;  for  in 
stance,  the  powers  of  a  fence.  On  the  prairie  you 
wander  a  hundred  miles  and  hardly  find  a  stick  or 
a  stone.  At  rare  intervals  a  thin  oak-opening  has 
been  spared,  and  every  such  section  has  been  long 
occupied.  But  the  farmer  manages  to  procure  wood 
from  far,  puts  up  a  rail-fence,  and  at  once  the  seeds 
sprout  and  the  oaks  rise.  It  was  only  browsing 
and  fire  which  had  kept  them  down.  Plant  fruit- 
trees  by  the  roadside,  and  their  fruit  will  never  be 
allowed  to  ripen.  Draw  a  pine  fence  about  them, 
and  for  fifty  years  they  mature  for  the  owner  their 
delicate  fruit.  There  is  a  great  deal  of  enchant 
ment  in  a  chestnut  rail  or  picketed  pine  boards. 

Nature  suggests  every  economical  expedient 
somewhere  on  a  great  scale.  Set  out  a  pine-tree, 
and  it  dies  in  the  first  year,  or  lives  a  poor  spindle. 
But  Nature  drops  a  pine-cone  in  Mariposa,  and  it 
lives  fifteen  centuries,  grows  three  or  four  hundred 
feet  high,  and  thirty  in  diameter,  —  grows  in  a 
grove  of  giants,  like  a  colonnade  of  Thebes.  Ask 
the  tree  how  it  was  done.  It  did  not  grow  on  a 
ridge,  but  in  a  basin,  where  it  found  deep  soil,  cold 
enough  and  dry  enough  for  the  pine ;  defended  it 
self  from  the  sun  by  growing  in  groves,  and  from 


FARMING. 

the  wind  by  the  walls  of  the  mountain.  The  rool 
that  shot  deepest,  and  the  stems  of  happiest  expos 
ure,  drew  the  nourishment  from  the  rest,  until  the 
less  thrifty  perished  and  manured  the  soil  for  the 
stronger,  and  the  mammoth  Sequoias  rose  to  their 
enormous  proportions.  The  traveller  who  saw  them 
remembered  his  orchard  at  home,  where  every  year, 
in  the  destroying  wind,  his  forlorn  trees  pined  like 
suffering  virtue.  Iii  September,  when  the  pears 
hang  heaviest  and  are  taking  from  the  sun  their 
gay  colors,  comes  usually  a  gusty  day  which  shakes 
the  whole  garden  and  throws  down  the  heaviest 
fruit  in  bruised  heaps.  The  planter  took  the  hint 
of  the  Sequoias,  built  a  high  wall,  or  —  better  — 
surrounded  the  orchard  with  a  nursery  of  birches 
and  evergreens.  Thus  he  had  the  mountain  basin 
in  miniature  ;  and  his  pears  grew  to  the  size  of 
melons,  and  the  vines  beneath  them  ran  an  eighth 
of  a  mile.  But  this  shelter  creates  a  new  climate. 
The  wall  that  keeps  off  the  strong  wind  keeps  off 
the  cold  wind.  The  high  wall  reflecting  the  heat 
back  on  the  soil  gives  that  acre  a  quadruple  share 
of  sunshine,  — 

"  Enclosing  in  the  garden  square 
A  dead  and  standing  pool  of  air," 

and  makes  a  little  Cuba  within  it,  whilst  all  with 
out  is  Labrador. 

The  chemist  comes  to  his  aid  every  year  by  fol- 


144  FARMING. 

lowing-  out  some  new  hint  drawn  from  nature,  and 
now  affirms  that  this  dreary  space  occupied  by  the 
farmer  is  needless ;  he  will  concentrate  his  kitchen- 
garden  into  a  box  of  one  or  two  rods  square,  will 
take  the  roots  into  his  laboratory;  the  vines  and 
stalks  and  stems  may  go  sprawling  about  in  the 
fields  outside,  he  will  attend  to  the  roots  in  his  tub, 
gorge  them  with  food  that  is  good  for  them.  The 
smaller  his  garden,  the  better  he  can  feed  it,  and 
the  larger  the  crop.  As  he  nursed  his  Thanksgiv 
ing  turkeys  on  bread  and  milk,  so  he  will  pamper 
his  peaches  and  grapes  on  the  viands  they  like  best. 
If  they  have  an  appetite  for  potash,  or  salt,  or  iron, 
or  ground  bones,  or  even  now  and  then  for  a  dead 
hog,  he  will  indulge  them.  They  keep  the  secret 
well,  and  never  tell  on  your  table  whence  they  drew 
their  sunset  complexion  or  their  delicate  flavors. 

See  what  the  farmer  accomplishes  by  a  cartload 
of  tiles  :  he  alters  the  climate  by  letting  off  water 
which  kept  the  land  cold  through  constant  evapora 
tion,  and  allows  the  warm  rain  to  bring  down  into 
the  roots  the  temperature  of  the  air  and  of  the  sur 
face-soil  ;  and  he  deepens  the  soil,  since  the  dis 
charge  of  this  standing  water  allows  the  roots  of 
his  plants  to  penetrate  below  the  surface  to  the  sub 
soil,  and  accelerates  the  ripening  of  the  crop.  The 
town  of  Concord  is  one  of  the  oldest  towns  in  this 
country,  far  on  now  in  its  third  century.  The  se- 


FARMING.  145 

lectnien  have  once  in  every  five  years  perambulated 
the  boundaries,  and  yet,  in  this  very  year,  a  large 
quantity  of  land  has  been  discovered  and  added  to 
the  town  without  a  murmur  of  complaint  from  any 
quarter.  By  drainage  we  went  down  to  a  subsoil 
we  did  not  know,  and  have  found  there  is  a  Con 
cord  under  old  Concord,  which  we  are  now  getting 
the  best  crops  from  ;  a  Middlesex  under  Middle 
sex  ;  and,  in  fine,  that  Massachusetts  has  a  base 
ment  story  more  valuable  and  that  promises  to  pay 
a  better  rent  than  all  the  superstructure.  But  these 
tiles  have  acquired  by  association  a  new  interest. 
These  tiles  are  political  economists,  confuters  of 
Malthus  and  Ricardo ;  they  are  so  many  Young 
Americans  announcing  a  better  era,  —  more  bread. 
They  drain  the  land,  make  it  sweet  and  friable ; 
have  made  English  Chat  Moss  a  garden,  and  will 
now  do  as  much  for  the  Dismal  Swamp.  But  be 
yond  this  benefit  they  are  the  text  of  better  opin 
ions  and  better  auguries  for  mankind. 

There  has  been  a  nightmare  bred  in  England  of 
indigestion  and  spleen  among  landlords  and  loom- 
lords,  namely,  the  dogma  that  men  breed  too  fast 
for  the  powers  of  the  soil ;  that  men  multiply  in 
a  geometrical  ratio,  whilst  corn  multiplies  only  in 
an  arithmetical ;  and  hence  that,  the  more  prosper 
ous  we  are,  the  faster  we  approach  these  frightful 
limits :  nay,  the  plight  of  every  new  generation 

VOL.    VII.  10 


146  FARMING. 

is  worse  than  of  the  foregoing,  because  the  first 
comers  take  up  the  best  lands  ;  the  next,  the  sec 
ond  best ;  and  each  succeeding  wave  of  population 
is  driven  to  poorer,  so  that  the  land  is  ever  yield 
ing  less  returns  to  enlarging  hosts  of  eaters.  Henry 
Carey  of  Philadelphia  replied :  "  Not  so,  Mr.  Mal- 
thus,  but  just  the  opposite  of  so  is  the  fact." 

The  first  planter,  the  savage,  without  helpers, 
without  tools,  looking  chiefly  to  safety  from  his 
enemy,  —  man  or  beast,  —  takes  poor  land.  The 
better  lands  are  loaded  with  timber,  which  he  can 
not  clear ;  they  need  drainage,  which  he  cannot  at 
tempt.  He  cannot  plough,  or  fell  trees,  or  drain  the 
rich  swamp.  He  is  a  poor  creature  ;  he  scratches 
with  a  sharp  stick,  lives  in  a  cave  or  a  hutch,  has 
no  road  but  the  trail  of  the  moose  or  bear  ;  he 
lives  on  their  flesh  when  he  can  kill  one,  on  roots 
and  fruits  when  he  cannot.  He  falls,  and  is  lame  ; 
he  coughs,  he  has  a  stitch  in  his  side,  he  has  a  fever 
and  chills ;  when  he  is  hungry,  he  cannot  always 
kill  and  eat  a  bear,  —  chances  of  war,  —  sometimes 
the  bear  eats  him.  'T  is  long  before  he  digs  or 
plants  at  all,  and  then  only  a  patch.  Later  he 
learns  that  his  planting  is  better  than  hunting ; 
that  the  earth  works  faster  for  him  than  he  can 
work  for  himself,  —  works  for  him  when  he  is 
asleep,  when  it  rains,  when  heat  overcomes  him. 
The  sunstroke  which  knocks  him  down  brings  his 


FARMING.  147 

corn  up.  As  his  family  thrive,  and  other  planters 
come  up  around  him,  he  begins  to  fell  trees  and 
clear  good  land ;  and  when,  by  and  by,  there  is 
more  skill,  and  tools  and  roads,  the  new  genera 
tions  are  strong  enough  to  open  the  lowlands,  where 
the  wash  of  mountains  has  accumulated  the  best 
soil,  which  yield  a  hundred-fold  the  former  crops. 
The  last  lands  are  the  best  lands.  It  needs  science 
and  great  numbers  to  cultivate  the  best  lands,  and 
in  the  best  manner.  Thus  true  political  economy 
is  not  mean,  but  liberal,  and  on  the  pattern  of  the 
sun  and  sky.  Population  increases  in  the  ratio  of 
morality  ;  credit  exists  in  the  ratio  of  morality. 

Meantime  we  cannot  enumerate  the  incidents 
and  agents  of  the  farm  without  reverting  to  their 
influence  on  the  farmer.  He  carries  out  this  cu 
mulative  preparation  of  means  to  their  last  effect. 
This  crust  of  soil  which  ages  have  refined  he  re 
fines  again  for  the  feeding  of  a  civil  and  instructed 
people.  The  great  elements  with  which  he  deals 
cannot  leave  him  unaffected,  or  unconscious  of  his 
ministry;  but  their  influence  somewhat  resembles 
that  which  the  same  Nature  has  on  the  child,  —  of 
subduing  and  silencing  him.  We  see  the  farmer 
with  pleasure  and  respect  when  we  think  what  pow 
ers  and  utilities  are  so  meekly  worn.  He  knows 
every  secret  of  labor ;  he  changes  the  face  of  the 
landscape.  Put  him  on  a  new  planet  and  he  would 


148  FARMING. 

know  where  to  begin ;  yet  there  is  no  arrogance  in 
his  bearing,  but  a  perfect  gentleness.  The  farmer 
stands  well  on  the  world.  Plain  in  manners  as  in 
dress,  he  would  not  shine  in  palaces ;  he  is  abso 
lutely  unknown  and  inadmissible  therein ;  living  or 
dying,  he  never  shall  be  heard  of  in  them  ;  yet  the 
drawing-room  heroes  put  down  beside  him  would 
shrivel  in  his  presence  ;  he  solid  and  unexpressive, 
they  expressed  to  gold-leaf.  But  he  stands  well  on 
the  world,  —  as  Adam  did,  as  an  Indian  does,  as 
Homer's  heroes,  Agamemnon  or  Achilles,  do.  He 
is  a  person  whom  a  poet  of  any  clime  —  Milton, 
Firdusi,  or  Cervantes  —  would  appreciate  as  being 
really  a  piece  of  the  old  Nature,  comparable  to  sun 
and  moon,  rainbow  and  flood ;  because  he  is,  as  all 
natural  persons  are,  representative  of  Nature  as 
much  as  these. 

That  uncorrupted  behavior  which  we  admire  in 
animals  and  in  young  children  belongs  to  him,  to 
the  hunter,  the  sailor,  —  the  man  who  lives  in  the 
presence  of  Nature.  Cities  force  growth  and  make 
men  talkative  and  entertaining,  but  they  make 
them  artificial.  What  possesses  interest  for  us 'is 
the  naturcl  of  each,  his  constitutional  excellence. 
This  is  forever  a  surprise,  engaging  and  lovely ;  we 
cannot  be  satiated  with  knowing  it,  and  about  it ; 
and  it  is  this  which  the  conversation  with  Nature 
cherishes  and  guards. 


WORKS  AND   DAYS. 


WOEKS  AND  DAYS. 


'  OUR  nineteenth  century  is  the  age  of  tools.  They 
grow  out  of  our  structure.  "  Man  is  the  meter  of 
all  things,"  said  Aristotle ;  "  the  hand  is  the  instru 
ment  of  instruments,  and  the  mind  is  the  form  of 
forms."  The  human  body  is  the  magazine  of  inven 
tions,  the  patent  office,  where  are  the  models  from 
which  every  hint  was  taken.  All  the  tools  and 
engines  011  earth  are  only  extensions  of  its  limbs 
and  senses.  One  definition  of  man  is  "  an  intelli 
gence  served  by  organs."  Machines  can  only  sec 
ond,  not  supply,  his  unaided  senses.  The  body  is 
a  meter.  The  eye  appreciates  finer  differences  than 
art  can  expose.  The  apprentice  clings  to  his  foot- 
rule;  a  practised  mechanic  will  measure  by  his 
thumb  and  his  arm  with  equal  precision ;  and  a  good 
surveyor  will  pace  sixteen  rods  more  accurately 
than  another  man  can  measure  them  by  tape.  The 
sympathy  of  eye  and  hand  by  which  an  Indian  or 
a  practised  slinger  hits  his  mark  with  a  stone,  or  a 
wood-chopper  or  a  carpenter  swings  his  axe  to  a 
hair-line  on  his  log,  are  examples  ;  and  there  is  no 


152  WORKS  AND  DAYS. 

sense  or  organ  which  is  not  capable  of  exquisite 
performance. 

Men  love  to  wonder,  and  that  is  the  seed  of  our 
science ;  and  such  is  the  mechanical  determination 
of  our  age,  and  so  recent  are  our  best  contrivances, 
that  use  has  not  dulled  our  joy  and  pride  in  them  ; 
and  we  pity  our  fathers  for  dying  before  steam  and 
galvanism,  sulphuric  ether  and  ocean  telegraphs, 
photograph  and  spectroscope  arrived,  as  cheated 
out  of  half  their  human  estate.  These  arts  open 
great  gates  of  a  future,  promising  to  make  the 
world  plastic  and  to  lift  human  life  out  of  its  beg 
gary  to  a  god-like  ease  and  power. 

Our  century  to  be  sure  had  inherited  a  tolerable 
apparatus.  We  had  the  compass,  the  printing- 
press,  watches,  the  spiral  spring,  the  barometer, 
the  telescope.  Yet  so  many  inventions  have  been 
added  that  life  seems  almost  made  over  new ;  and 
as  Leibnitz  said  of  Newton,  that  "  if  he  reckoned 
all  that  had  been  done  by  mathematicians  from  the 
beginning  of  the  world  down  to  Newton,  and  what 
had  been  done  by  him,  his  would  be  the  better 
half,"  so  one  might  say  that  the  inventions  of  the 
last  fifty  years  counterpoise  those  of  the  fifty  cen 
turies  before  them.  For  the  vast  production  and 
manifold  application  of  iron  is  new ;  and  our  com 
mon  and  indispensable  utensils  of  house  and  farm 
are  new ;  the  sewing-machine,  the  power-loom,  the 


WORKS  AND  DAYS.  153 

McCormick  reaper,  the  mowing-machines,  gas-light, 
lucifer  matches,  and  the  immense  productions  of 
the  laboratory,  are  new  in  this  century,  and  one 
franc's  worth  of  coal  does  the  work  of  a  laborer 
for  twenty  days. 

Why  need  I  speak  of  steam,  the  enemy  of  space 
and  time,  with  its  enormous  strength  and  delicate 
applicability,  which  is  made  in  hospitals  to  bring  a 
bowl  of  gruel  to  a  sick  man's  bed,  and  can  twist 
beams  of  iron  like  candy-braids,  and  vies  with  the 
forces  which  upheaved  and  doubled  over  the  geo 
logic  strata?  Steam  is  an  apt  scholar  and  a  strong- 
shouldered  fellow,  but  it  has  not  yet  done  all  its 
work.  It  already  walks  about  the  field  like  a  man, 
and  will  do  anything  required  of  it.  It  irrigates 
crops,  and  drags  away  a  mountain.  It  must  sew 
our  shirts,  it  must  drive  our  gigs  ;  taught  by  Mr. 
Babbage,  it  must  calculate  interest  and  logarithms. 
Lord  Chancellor  Thurlow  thought  it  might  be  made 
to  draw  bills  and  answers  in  chancery.  If  that 
were  satire,  it  is  yet  coming  to  render  many  higher 
services  of  a  mechanico-intellectual  kind,  and  will 
leave  the  satire  short  of  the  fact. 

Plow  excellent  are  the  mechanical  aids  we  have 
applied  to  the  human  body,  as  in  dentistry,  in  vac 
cination,  in  the  rhinoplastic  treatment ;  in  the  beau 
tiful  aid  of  ether,  like  a  finer  sleep  ;  and  in  the 
boldest  promiser  of  all,  —  the  transfusion  of  the 


154  WORKS  AND  DAYS. 

blood, — which,  in  Paris,  it  was  claimed,  enables  a 
man  to  change  his  blood  as  often  as  his  linen  ! 

What  of  this  dapper  caoutchouc  and  gutta-per 
cha,  which  make  water-pipes  and  stomach-pumps, 
belting  for  mill-wheels,  and  diving  bells,  and  rain 
proof  coats  for  all  climates,  which  teach  us  to  defy 
the  wet,  and  put  every  man  on  a  footing  with  the 
beaver  and  the  crocodile?  What  of  the  grand  tools 
with  which  we  engineer,  like  kobolds  and  enchant 
ers,  tunnelling  Alps,  canalling  the  American  Isth 
mus,  piercing  the  Arabian  desert  ?  In  Massachu 
setts  we  fight  the  sea  successfully  with  beach-grass 
and  broom,  and  the  blowing  sand-barrens  with  pine 
plantations.  The  soil  of  Holland,  once  the  most 
populous  in  Europe,  is  below  the  level  of  the  sea. 
Egypt,  where  no  rain  fell  for  three  thousand  years, 
now,  it  is  said,  thanks  JVIehemet  Ali's  irrigations 
and  planted  forests  for  late  -  returning  showers. 
>The  old  Hebrew  king  said,  "  He  makes  the  wrath 
of  man  to  praise  him."  And  there  is  no  argument 
of  theism  better  than  the  grandeur  of  ends  brought 
about  by  paltry  means.  The  chain  of  Western 
railroads  from  Chicago  to  the  Pacific  has  planted 
cities  and  civilization  in  less  time  than  it  costs  to 
bring  an  orchard  into  bearing. 

What  shall  we  say  of  the  ocean  telegraph,  that 
extension  of  the  eye  and  ear,  whose  sudden  per 
formance  astonished  mankind  as  if  the  intellect 


WORKS  AND  DAYS.  155 

were  taking  the  brute  earth  itself  into  training,  and 
shooting!'  the  first  thrills  of  life  and  thought  through 

o  O  O 

the  unwilling  brain  ? 

There  does  not  seem  any  limit  to  these  new  infor 
mations  of  the  same  Spirit  that  made  the  elements 
at  first,  and  now,  through  man,  works  them.  Art 
and  power  will  go  on  as  they  have  done,  —  will 
make  day  out  of  night,  time  out  of  space,  and  space 
out  of  time. 

Invention  breeds  invention.  No  sooner  is  the 
electric  telegraph  devised  than  gutta-percha,  the 
very  material  it  requires,  is  found.  The  aeronaut 
is  provided  with  gun-cotton,  the  very  fuel  he  wants 
for  his  balloon.  When  commerce  is  vastly  en 
larged,  California  and  Australia  expose  the  gold  it 
needs.  When  Europe  is  over-populated,  America 
and  Australia  crave  to  be  peopled  ;  and  so  through 
out,  every  chance  is  timed,  as  if  Nature,  who  made 
the  lock,  knew  where  to  find  the  key. 

Another  result  of  our  arts  is  the  new  intercourse 
which  is  surprising  us  with  new  solutions  of  the 
embarrassing  political  problems.  The  intercourse 
is  not  new,  but  the  scale  is  new.  Our  selfishness 
would  have  held  slaves  or  would  have  excluded 
from  ?,  quarter  of  the  planet  all  that  are  not  born 
on  the  soil  of  that  quarter.  Our  politics  are  dis 
gusting  ;  but  what  can  they  help  or  hinder  when 
from  time  to  time  the  primal  instincts  are  im- 


156  WORKS  AND  DAYS. 

pressed  on  masses  of  mankind,  when  the  nations 
are  in  exodus  and  flux  ?  Nature  loves  to  cross  her 
stocks,  —  and  German,  Chinese,  Turk,  Russ,  and 
Kanaka  were  putting  out  to  sea,  and  intermarry 
ing  race  with  race ;  and  commerce  took  the  hint, 
and  ships  were  built  capacious  enough  to  carry  the 
people  of  a  county. 

This  thousand-handed  art  has  introduced  a  new 
element  into  the  state.  The  science  of  power  is 
forced  to  remember  the  power  of  science.  Civiliza 
tion  mounts  and  climbs.  Malthus,  when  he  stated 
that  the  mouths  went  on  multiplying  geometrically 
and  the  food  only  arithmetically,  forgot  to  say  that 
the  human  mind  was  also  a  factor  in  political  econ 
omy,  and  that  the  augmenting  wants  of  society 
would  be  met  by  an  augmenting  power  of  inven 
tion. 

Yes,  we  have  a  pretty  artillery  of  tools  now  in 
our  social  arrangements  :  we  ride  four  times  as  fast 
as  our  fathers  did  ;  travel,  grind,  weave,  forge, 
plant,  till,  and  excavate  better.  We  have  new 
shoes,  gloves,  glasses,  and  gimlets  ;  we  have  the  cal 
culus  ;  we  have  the  newspaper,  which  does  its  best 
to  make  every  square  acre  of  land  and  sea  give  an 
account  of  itself  at  your  breakfast-table  ;  we  have 
money,  and  paper  money  ;  we  have  language,  — 
the  finest  tool  of  all,  and  nearest  to  the  mind. 
Much  will  have  more.  Man  flatters  himself  that 


WORKS  AND  DAYS.  157 

his  command  over  nature  must  increase.  Things 
begin  to  obey  him.  We  are  to  have  the  balloon 
yet,  and  the  next  war  will  be  fought  in  the  air. 
We  may  yet  find  a  rose  water  that  will  wash  the 
negro  white.  He  sees  the  skull  of  the  English  race 
changing  from  its  Saxon  type  under  the  exigencies 
of  American  life. 

Tantalus,  who  in  old  times  was  seen  vainly  try 
ing  to  quench  his  thirst  with  a  flowing  stream  which 
ebbed  whenever  he  approached  it,  has  been  seen 
again  lately.  He  is  in  Paris,  in  New  York,  in 
Boston.  He  is  now  in  great  spirits ;  thinks  he 
shall  reach  it  yet ;  thinks  he  shall  bottle  the  wave. 
It  is  however  getting  a  little  doubtful.  Things 
have  an  ugly  look  still.  No  matter  how  many 
centuries  of  culture  have  preceded,  the  new  man 
always  finds  himself  standing  on  the  brink  of  chaos, 
always  in  a  crisis.  Can  anybody  remember  when 
the  times  were  not  hard,  and  money  not  scarce? 
Can  anybody  remember  when  sensible  men,  and  the 
right  sort  of  men,  and  the  right  sort  of  women, 
were  plentiful  ?  Tantalus  begins  to  think  steam 
a  delusion,  and  galvanism  no  better  than  it  should 
be. 

Many  facts  concur  to  show  that  we  must  look 
deeper  for  our  salvation  than  to  steam,  photographs, 
balloons  or  astronomy.  These  tools  have  some 
questionable  properties.  They  are  reagents.  Ma- 


158  WORKS  AND  DAYS. 

cliinery  is  aggressive.  The  weaver  becomes  a  web, 
the  machinist  a  machine.  If  you  do  not  use  the 
tools,  they  use  you.  All  tools  are  in  one  sense 
edge-tools,  and  dangerous.  A  man  builds  a  fine 
house  ;  and  now  he  has  a  master,  and  a  task  for 
life  :  he  is  to  furnish,  watch,  show  it,  and  keep  it  in 
repair,  the  rest  of  his  days.  A  man  has  a  reputa 
tion,  and  is  no  longer  free,  but  must  respect  that. 
A  man  makes  a  picture  or  a  book,  and,  if  it  suc 
ceeds,  't  is  often  the  worse  for  him.  I  saw  a  brave 
man  the  other  day,  hitherto  as  free  as  the  hawk  or 
the  fox  of  the  wilderness,  constructing  his  cabinet 
of  drawers  for  shells,  eggs,  minerals,  and  mounted 
birds.  It  was  easy  to  see  that  he  was  amusing 
himself  with  making  pretty  links  for  his  own 
limbs. 

Then  the  political  economist  thinks  "  't  is  doubt 
ful  if  all  the  mechanical  inventions  that  ever  existed 
have  lightened  the  day's  toil  of  one  human  being." 
The  machine  unmakes  the  man.  Now  that  the 
machine  is  so  perfect,  the  engineer  is  nobody. 
Every  new  step  in  improving  the  engine  restricts 
one  more  act  of  the  engineer,  —  unteaches  him. 
Once  it  took  Archimedes ;  now  it  only  needs  a 
fireman,  and  a  boy  to  know  the  coppers,  to  pull  up 
the  handles  or  mind  the  water-tank.  But  when 
the  engine  breaks,  they  can  do  nothing. 

What  sickening  details  in  the  daily  journals !     I 


WORKS  AND  DAYS.  159 

believe  they  have  ceased  to  publish  the  "  Newgate 
Calendar  "  and  the  "  Pirate's  Own  Book  "  since  the 
family  newspapers,  namely  the  "  New  York  Trib 
une  "  and  the  "  London  Times  "  have  quite  super 
seded  them  in  the  freshness  as  well  as  the  horror  of 
their  records  of  crime.  Politics  were  never  more 
corrupt  and  brutal ;  and  Trade,  that  pride  and  dar 
ling  of  our  ocean,  that  educator  of  nations,  that  ben 
efactor  in  spite  of  itself,  ends  in  shameful  default 
ing,  bubble,  and  bankruptcy,  all  over  the  world. 

Of  course  we  resort  to  the  enumeration  of  his 
arts  and  inventions  as  a  measure  of  the  worth  of 
man.  But  if,  with  all  his  arts,  he  is  a  felon,  we 
cannot  assume  the  mechanical  skill  or  chemical  re 
sources  as  the  measure  of  worth.  Let  us  try  another 
gauge. 

What  have  these  arts  done  for  the  character,  for 
the  worth  of  mankind  ?  Are  men  better  ?  'T  is 
sometimes  questioned  whether  morals  have  not  de 
clined  as  the  arts  have  ascended.  Here  are  great 
arts  and  little  men.  Here  is  greatness  begotten  of 
paltriness.  We  cannot  trace  the  triumphs  of  civil 
ization  to  such  benefactors  as  we  wish.  The  great 
est  meliorator  of  the  world  is  selfish,  huckstering 
Trade.  Every  victory  over  matter  ought  to  recom 
mend  to  man  the  worth  of  his  nature.  But  now 
one  wonders  who  did  all  this  good.  Look  up  the 
inventors.  Each  has  his  own  knack;  his  genius  is 


160  WORKS  AND  DAYS. 

in  veins  and  spots.  But  the  great,  equal,  sym 
metrical  brain,  fed  from  a  great  heart,  you  shall  not 
find.  Every  one  has  more  to  hide  than  he  has  to 
show,  or  is  lamed  by  his  excellence.  'T  is  too 
plain  that  with  the  material  power  the  moral  prog 
ress  has  not  kept  pace.  It  appears  that  we  have 
not  made  a  judicious  investment.  Works  and  days 
were  offered  us,  and  we  took  works. 

The  new  study  of  the  Sanskrit  has  shown  us  the 
origin  of  the  old  names  of  God,  —  Dyaus,  Deus, 
Zeus,  Zeu  pater,  Jupiter,  —  names  of  the  sun,  still 
recognizable  through  the  modifications  of  our  ver 
nacular  words,  importing  that  the  Day  is  the  Di 
vine  Power  and  Manifestation,  and  indicating  that 
those  ancient  men,  in  their  attempts  to  express 
the  Supreme  Power  of  the  universe,  called  him  the 
Day,  and  that  this  name  was  accepted  by  all  the 
tribes. 

Hesiod  wrote  a  poem  which  he  called  "  Works 
and  Days,"  in  which  he  marked  the  changes  of  the 
Greek  year,  instructing  the  husbandman  at  the  ris 
ing  of  what  constellation  he  might  safely  sow,  when 
to  reap,  when  to  gather  wood,  when  the  sailor 
might  launch  his  boat  in  security  from  storms,  and 
what  admonitions  of  the  planets  he  must  heed.  It 
is  full  of  economies  for  Grecian  life,  noting  the 
proper  age  for  marriage,  the  rules  of  household 
thrift,  and  of  hospitality.  The  poem  is  full  of  piety 


WORKS  AND  DAYS.  161 

as  well  as  prudence,  and  is  adapted  to  all  merid 
ians  by  adding  the  ethics  of  works  and  of  days. 
But  he  has  not  pushed  his  study  of  days  into  such 
inquiry  and  analysis  as  they  invite. 

A  farmer  said  "  he  should  like  to  have  all  the 
land  that  joined  his  own."  Bonaparte,  who  had  the 
same  appetite,  endeavored  to  make  the  Mediter 
ranean  a  French  lake.  Czar  Alexander  was  more 
expansive,  and  wished  to  call  the  Pacific  my  ocean  ; 
and  the  Americans  were  obliged  to  resist  his  at 
tempts  to  make  it  a  close  sea.  But  if  he  had  the 
earth  for  his  pasture  and  the  sea  for  his  pond  he 
would  be  a  pauper  still.  He  only  is  rich  who  owns 
the  day.  There  is  110  king,  rich  man,  fairy,  or 
demon  who  possesses  such  power  as  that.  The  days 
are  ever  divine  as  to  the  first  Aryans.  They  are 
of  the  least  pretension  and  of  the  greatest  capacity 
of  anything  that  exists.  They  come  and  go  like 
muffled  and  veiled  figures,  sent  from  a  distant 
friendly  party ;  but  they  say  nothing,  and  if  we  do 
not  use  the  gifts  they  bring,  they  carry  them  as 
silently  away. 

How  the  day  fits  itself  to  the  mind,  winds  itself 
round  it  like  a  fine  drapery,  clothing,  all  its  fancies ! 
Any  holiday  communicates  to  us  its  color.  We 
wear  its  cockade  and  favors  in  our  humor.  Re 
member  what  boys  think  in  the  morning  of  "  Elec 
tion  day,"  of  the  Fourth  of  July,  of  Thanksgiving 

VOL.   VII.  11 


162  WORKS  AND  DAYS. 

or  Christmas.  The  very  stars  in  their  courses 
wink  to  them  of  nuts  and  cakes,  bonbons,  presents, 
and  fire-works.  Cannot  memory  still  descry  the 
old  school-house  and  its  porch,  somewhat  hacked  by 
jack-knives,  where  you  spun  tops  and  snapped  mar 
bles  ;  and  do  you  not  recall  that  life  was  then  cal 
endared  by  moments,  threw  itself  into  nervous 
knots  of  glittering  hours,  even  as  now,  and  not 
spread  itself  abroad  an  equable  felicity  ?  In  college 
terms,  and  in  years  that  followed,  the  young  gradu 
ate,  when  the  Commencement  anniversary  returned, 
though  he  were  in  a  swamp,  would  see  a  festive 
light  and  find  the  air  faintly  echoing  with  plausive 
academic  thunders.  In  solitude  and  in  the  coun 
try,  what  dignity  distinguishes  the  holy  time  !  The 
old  Sabbath,  or  Seventh  Day,  white  with  the  relig 
ions  of  unknown  thousands  of  years,  when  this  hal 
lowed  hour  dawns  out  of  the  deep,  —  a  clean  page, 
which  the  wise  may  inscribe  with  truth,  whilst  the 
savage  scrawls  it  with  fetishes,  —  the  cathedral  mu 
sic  of  history  breathes  through  it  a  psalm  to  our 
solitude. 

So,  in  the  common  experience  of  the  scholar,  the 
weather  fits  his  moods.  A  thousand  tunes  the  vari 
able  wind  plays,  a  thousand  spectacles  it  brings, 
and  each  is  the  frame  or  dwelling  of  a  new  spirit. 
I  used  formerly  to  choose  my  time  with  some  nicety 
for  each  favorite  book.  One  author  is  good  for 


WORKS  AND  DAYS.  163 

winter,  and  one  for  the  clog-days.  The  scholar 
must  look  long  for  the  right  hour  for  Plato's  Ti- 
mseus.  At  last  the  elect  morning  arrives,  the  early 
dawn,  —  a  few  lights  conspicuous  in  the  heaven,  as 
of  a  world  just  created  and  still  becoming,  —  and 
in  its  wide  leisure  we  dare  open  that  book. 

There  are  days  when  the  great  are  near  us,  when 
there  is  110  frown  on  their  brow,  no  condescension 
even ;  when  they  take  us  by  the  hand,  and  we  share 
their  thought.  There  are  days  which  are  the  car 
nival  of  the  year.  The  angels  assume  flesh,  and 
repeatedly  become  visible.  The  imagination  of  the 
gods  is  excited  and  rushes  011  every  side  into  forms. 
Yesterday  not  a  bird  peeped ;  the  world  was  barren, 
peaked,  and  pining :  to-day  't  is  inconceivably  pop 
ulous  ;  creation  swarms  and  meliorates. 

The  days  are  made  on  a  loom  whereof  the  warp 
and  woof  are  past  and  future  time.  They  are 
majestically  dressed,  as  if  every  god  brought  a 
thread  to  the  skyey  web.  'T  is  pitiful  the  things 
by  which  we  are  rich  or  poor,  —  a  matter  of  coins, 
coats,  and  carpets,  a  little  more  or  less  stone,  or 
wood,  or  paint,  the  fashion  of  a  cloak  or  hat ;  like 
the  luck  of  naked  Indians,  of  whom  one  is  proud 
in  the  possession  of  a  glass  bead  or  a  red  feather, 
and  the  rest  miserable  in  the  want  of  it.  But  the 
treasures  which  Nature  spent  itself  to  amass, — the 
secular,  refined,  composite  anatomy  of  man,  which 


164  WORKS  AND  DAYS. 

all  strata  go  to  form,  which  the  prior  races,  from 
infusory  and  saurian,  existed  to  ripen ;  the  sur 
rounding  plastic  natures  ;  the  earth  with  its  foods  ; 
the  intellectual,  temperamenting  air ;  the  sea  with 
its  invitations ;  the  heaven  deep  with  worlds  j  and 
the  answering  brain  and  nervous  structure  replying 
to  these ;  the  eye  that  looketh  into  the  deeps,  which 
again  look  back  to  the  eye,  abyss  to  abyss ;  —  these, 
not  like  a  glass  bead,  or  the  coins  or  carpets,  are 
given  immeasurably  to  all. 

This  miracle  is  hurled  into  every  beggar's  hands. 
The  blue  sky  is  a  covering  for  a  market  and  for 
the  cherubim  and  seraphim.  The  sky  is  the  var 
nish  or  glory  with  which  the  Artist  has  washed  the 
whole  work,  —  the  verge  or  confines  of  matter  and 
spirit.  Nature  could  no  farther  go.  Could  our 
happiest  dream  come  to  pass  in  solid  fact,  —  could 
a  power  open  our  eyes  to  behold  "  millions--bf  spirit 
ual  creatures  walk  the  earth,"  —  I  believe  I  should 
find  that  mid-plain  on  wliicli  they  moved  floored 
beneath  and  arched  above  with  the  same  web  of 
blue  depth  which  weaves  itself  over  me  now,  as  I 
trudge  the  streets  on  my  affairs. 

It-  is  singular  that  our  rich  English  language 
should  have  no  word  to  denote  the  face  of  the 
world.  J&nde  was  the  old  English  term,  which, 
however,  filled  only  half  the  range  of  our  fine  Latin 
word,  with  its  delicate  future  tense, —  natura,  about 


WORKS  AND  DAYS.  165 

to  be  born,  or  what  German  philosophy  denotes  as 
a  becoming.  But  nothing  expresses  that  power 
which  seems  to  work  for  beauty  alone.  The  Greek 
Kosmos  did  ;  and  therefore,  with  great  propriety, 
Humboldt  entitles  his  book,  which  recounts  the  last 
results  of  science,  Cosmos. 

Such  are  the  days,  —  the  earth  is  the  cup,  the 
sky  is  the  cover,  of  the  immense  bounty  of  nature 
which  is  offered  us  for  our  daily  aliment ;  but  what 
a  force  of  illusion  begins  life  with  iis  and  attends 
us  to  the  end !  We  are  coaxed,  flattered,  and 
duped,  from  morn  to  eve,  from  birth  to  death ;  and 
where  is  the  old  eye  that  ever  saw  through  the 
deception  ?  The  Hindoos  represent  Maia,  the  illu 
sory  energy  of  Vishnu,  as  one  of  his  principal  attri 
butes.  As  if,  in  this  gale  of  warring  elements 
which  life  is,  it  was  necessary  to  bind  souls  to  hu 
man  life  as  mariners  in  a  tempest  lash  themselves 
to  the  mast  and  bulwarks  of  a  ship,  and  Nature 
employed  certain  illusions  as  her  ties  and  straps,  — 
a  rattle,  a  doll,  an  apple,  for  a  child  ;  skates,  a  river, 
•a  boat,  a  horse,  a  gun,  for  the  growing  boy  ;  and  I 
will  not  begin  to  name  those  of  the  youth  and 
adult,  for  they  are  numberless.  Seldom  and  slowly 
the  mask  falls  and  the  pupil  is  permitted  to  see 
that  all  is  one  stuff,  cooked  and  painted  under 
many  counterfeit  appearances'  Plume's  doctrine 
was  that  the  circumstances  vary,  the  amount  of 


166  WORKS  AND  DAYS. 

happiness  does  not ;  that  the  beggar  cracking  fleas 
in  the  sunshine  under  a  hedge,  and  the  duke  roll- 
•ing  by  in  his  chariot ;  the  girl  equipped  for  her  first 
ball,  and  the  orator  returning  triumphant  from  the 
debate,  had  different  means,  but  the  same  quantity 
of  pleasant  excitement. 

This  element  of  illusion  lends  all  its  force  to  hide 
the  values  of  present  time.  Who  is  he  that  does 
not  always  find  himself  doing  something  less  than 
his  best  task  ?  "  What  are  you  doing  ?  "  "  0, 
nothing ;  I  have  been  doing  thus,  or  I  shall  do  so 
or  so,  but  now  I  am  only  — "  Ah!  poor  dupe, 
will  you  never  slip  out  of  the  web  of  the  master 
juggler,  —  never  learn  that  as  soon  as  the  irrecov 
erable  years  have  woven  their  blue  glory  between 
to-day  and  us  these  passing  hours  shall  glitter  and 
draw  us  as  the  wildest  romance  and  the  homes  of 
beauty  and  poetry  ?  How  difficult  to  deal  erect 
with  them !  The  events  they  bring,  their  trade, 
entertainments,  and  gossip,  their  urgent  work,  all 
throw  dust  in  the  eyes  and  distract  attention.  He 
is  a  strong  man  who  can  look  them  in  the  eye,  see 
through  this  juggle,  feel  their  identity,  and  keep 
his  own  ;  who  can  know  surely  that  one  will  be  like 
another  to  the  end  of  the  world,  nor  permit  love,  or 
death,  or  politics,  or  money,  war,  or  pleasure,  to 
draw  him  from  his  task. 

The  world  is  always  equal  to  itself,  and  every 


WORKS  AND  DAYS  167 

man  in  moments  of  deeper  thought  is  apprised  that 
he  is  repeating  the  experiences  of  the  people  in  the 
streets  of  Thebes  or  Byzantium.  An  everlasting 
Now  reigns  in  nature,  which  hangs  the  same  roses 
on  our  bushes  which  charmed  the  Roman  and  the 
Clialdsean  in  their  hanging  gardens.  '  To  what " 
end,  then,'  he  asks,  '  should  I  study  languages,  and 
traverse  countries,  to  learn  so  simple  truths  ?  ' 

History  of  ancient  art,  excavated  cities,  recovery 
of  books  and  inscriptions,  —  yes,  the  works  were 
beautiful,  and  the  history  worth  knowing ;  and 
academies  convene  to  settle  the  claims  of  the  old 
schools.  What  journeys  and  measurements,  —  Nie- 
buhr  and  Miiller  and  Layard,  —  to  identify  the 
plain  of  Troy  and  Nimroud  town !  And  your  hom 
age  to  Dante  costs  you  so  much  sailing  ;  and  to 
ascertain  the  discoverers  of  America  needs  as  much 
voyaging  as  the  discovery  cost.  Poor  child  !  that 
flexile  clay  of  which  these  old  brothers  moulded 
their  admirable  symbols  was  not  Persian,  nor  Mem- 
phian,  nor  Teutonic,  nor  local  at  all,  but  was  com 
mon  lime  and  silex  and  water  and  sunlight,  the  heat 
of  the  blood  and  the  heaving  of  the  lungs  ;  it  was 
that  clay  which  thou  heldest  but  now  in  thy  foolish 
hands,  and  threwest  away  to  go  and  seek  in  vain 
in  sepulchres,  mummy-pits,  and  old  book-shops  of 
Asia  Minor,  Egypt,  and  England.  It  was  the 
deep  to-day  which  all  men  scorn  ;  the  rich  poverty 


168  WORKS  AND  DAYS. 

which,  men  hate  ;  the  populous,  all-loving  solitude 
which  men  quit  for  the  tattle  of  towns.  HE  lurks, 
he  hides,  —  he  who  is  success,  reality,  joy,  and 
power.  One  of  the  illusions  is  that  the  present 
hour  is  not  the  critical,  decisive  hour.  Write,  it  on 
your  heart  that  every  day  is  the  best  day  in  the 
year.  No  man  has  learned  anything  rightly  until 
he  knows  that  every  day  is  Doomsday.  'T  is  the 
old  secret  of  the  gods  that  they  come  in  low  dis 
guises.  'T  is  the  vulgar  great  who  come  dizened 
with  gold  and  jewels.  Keal  kings  hide  away  their 
crowns  in  their  wardrobes,  and  affect  a  plain  and 
poor  exterior.  In  the  Norse  legend  of  our  an 
cestors,  Odin  dwells  in  a  fisher's  hut  and  patches 
a  boat.  In  the  Hindoo  legends,  Hari  dwells  a 
peasant  among  peasants.  In  the  Greek  legend, 
Apollo  lodges  with  the  shepherds  of  Admetus,  and 
Jove  liked  to  rusticate  among  the  poor  Ethiopians. 
So,  in  our  history,  Jesus  is  born  in  a  barn,  and  his 
twelve  peers  are  fishermen.  'T  is  the  very  principle 
of  science  that  Nature  shows  herself  best  in  leasts ; 
it  was  the  maxim  of  Aristotle  and  Lucretius  ;  and, 
in  modern  times,  of  Swedenborg  and  of  Hahne- 
mann.  The  order  of  changes  in  the  egg  deter 
mines  the  age  of  fossil  strata.  So  it  was  the  rule 
of  our  poets,  in  the  legends  of  fairy  lore,  that  the 
fairies  largest  in  power  were  the  least  in  size.  In 
the  Christian  graces,  humility  stands  highest  of  all, 


WORKS  AND  DAYS.  169 

in  the  form  of  the  Madonna  ;  and  in  life,  -this  is 
the  secret  of  the  wise.  We  owe  to  genius  always 
the  same  debt,  of  lifting  the  curtain  from  the  com 
mon,  and  showing  us  that  divinities  are  sitting  dis 
guised  in  the  seeming  gang  of  gypsies  and  pedlers. 
In  daily  life,  what  distinguishes  the  master  is  the 
using  those  materials  he  has,  instead  of  looking 
about  for  what  are  more  renowned,  or  what  others 
have  used  well.  "  A  general,"  said  Bonaparte, 
"  always  has  troops  enough,  if  he  only  knows  how 
to  employ  those  he  has,  and  bivouacs  with  them." 
Do  not  refuse  the  employment  which  the  hour 
brings  you,  for  one  more  ambitious.  The  highest 
heaven  of  wisdom  is  alike  near  from  every  point, 
and  thou  must  find  it,  if  at  all,  by  methods  native 
to  thyself  alone. 

That  work  is  ever  the  more  pleasant  to  the  imagi 
nation  which  is  not  now  required.  How  wistfully, 
when  we  have  promised  to  attend  the  working 
committee,  we  look  at  the  distant  hills  and  their 
seductions  ! 

The  use  of  history  is  to  give  value  to  the  present 
hour  and  its  duty.  That  is  good  which  commends 
to  me  my  country,  my  climate,  my  means  and  ma 
terials,  my  associates.  I  knew  a  man  in  a  certain 
religious  exaltation  who  u  thought  it  an  honor,  to 
wash  his  own  face."  He  seemed  to  me  more  sane 
than  those  who  hold  themselves  cheap. 


170  WORKS  AND  DAYS. 

Zoologists  may  deny  that  horse-hairs  in  the  water 
change  to  worms,  but  I  find  that  whatever  is  old 
corrupts,  and  the  past  turns  to  snakes.  The  rever 
ence  for  the  deeds  of  our  ancestors  is  a  treacherous 
sentiment.  Their  merit  was  not  to  reverence  the 
old,  but  to  honor  the  present  moment ;  and  we 
falsely  make  them  excuses  of  the  very  habit  which 
they  hated  and  defied. 

Another  illusion  is  that  there  is  not  time  enough 
for  our  work.  Yet  we  might  reflect  that  though 
many  creatures  eat  from  one  dish,  each,  according 
to  its  constitution,  assimilates  from  the  elements 
what  belongs  to  it,  whether  time,  or  space,  or  light, 
or  water,  or  food.  A  snake  converts  whatever  prey 
the  meadow  yields  him  into  snake ;  a  fox,  into  fox ; 
and  Peter  and  John  are  working  up  all  existence 
into  Peter  and  John.  A  poor  Indian  chief  of  the 
Six  Nations  of  New  York  made  a  wiser  reply  than 
any  philosopher,  to  some  one  complaining  that  he 
had  not  enough  time.  "Well,"  said  Red  Jacket, 
"  I  suppose  you  have  all  there  is." 

A  third  illusion  haunts  us,  that  a  long  duration, 
as  a  year,  a  decade,  a  century,  is  valuable.  But 
an  old  French  sentence  says,  "  God  works  in  mo 
ments,  "  —  "  En  pen  d'heure  Dieu  labeure"  We 
ask  for  long  life,  but  't  is  deep  life,  or  grand  mo 
ments,  that  signify.  Let  the  measure  of  time  be 
spiritual,  not  mechanical.  Life  is  unnecessarily 


WORKS  AND  DAYS.  171 

long.  Moments  of  insight,  of  fine  personal  rela 
tion,  a  smile,  a  glance,  —  what  ample  borrowers  of 
eternity  they  are !  Life  culminates  and  concen 
trates  ;  and  Homer  said,  "  The  gods  ever  give  to 
mortals  their  apportioned  share  of  reason  only  on 
one  day." 

I  am  of  the  opinion  of  the  poet  Wordsworth, 
that  "  there  is  no  real  happiness  in  this  life  but  in 
intellect  and  virtue."  I  am  of  the  opinion  of  Pliny, 
that  "  whilst  we  are  musing  on  these  things,  we  are 
adding  to  the  length  of  our  lives."  I  am  of  the 
opinion  of  Glauco,  who  said,  "  The  measure  of  life, 
O  Socrates,  is,  with  the  wise,  the  speaking  and 
hearing  such  discourses  as  yours." 

He  only  can  enrich  me  who  can  recommend  to 
me  the  space  between  sun  and  sun.  'T  is  the  meas 
ure  of  a  man,  —  his  apprehension  of  a  day.  For 
we  do  not  listen  with  the  best  regard  to  the  verses 
of  a  man  who  is  only  a  poet,  nor  to  his  problems 
if  he  is  only  an  algebraist ;  but  if  a  man  is  at  once 
acquainted  with  the  geometric  foundations  of  things 
and  with  their  festal  splendor,  his  poetry  is  exact 
and  his  arithmetic  musical.  And  him  I  reckon  the 
most  learned  scholar,  not  who  can  unearth  for  me 
the  buried  dynasties  of  Sesostris  and  Ptolemy,  the 
Sothiac  era,  the  Olympiads  and  consulships,  but 
who  can  unfold  the  theory  of  this  particular  Wed 
nesday.  Can  he  uncover  the  ligaments  concealed 


172  WORKS  AND  DAYS. 

from  all  but  piety,  which  attach  the  dull  men  and 
things  we  know  to  the  First  Cause  ?  These  pass 
ing  fifteen  minutes,  men  think,  are  time,  not  eter 
nity  ;  are  low  and  subaltern,  are  but  hope  or  mem 
ory  ;  that  is,  the  way  to  or  the  way  from  welfare, 
but  not  welfare.  Can  he  show  their  tie  ?  That 
interpreter  shall  guide  us  from  a  menial  and  elee 
mosynary  existence  into  riches  and  stability.  Ho 
dignifies  the  place  where  he  is.  This  mendicant 
America,  this  curious,  peering,  itinerant,  imitative 
America,  studious  of  Greece  and  Rome,  of  Eng 
land  and  Germany,  will  take  off  its  dusty  shoes, 
will  take  off  its  glazed  traveller's  -  cap  and  sit  at 
home  with  repose  and  deep  joy  on  its  face.  The 
world  has  110  such  landscape,  the  aeons  of  history 
no  such  hour,  the  future  no  equal  second  opportu 
nity.  Now  let  poets  sing  !  now  let  arts  unfold  ! 

One  more  view  remains.  But  life  is  good  only 
when  it  is  magical  and  musical,  a  perfect  timing 
and  consent,  and  when  we  do  not  anatomize  it. 
You  must  treat  the  days  respectfully,  you  must  be 
•  a  day  yourself,  and  not  interrogate  it  like  a  college 
professor.  The  world  is  enigmatical,  —  everything 
said,  and  everything  known  or  done,  —  and  must 
not  be  taken  literally,  but  genially.  We  must  be 
at  the  top  of  our  condition  to  understand  anything 
rightly.  You  must  hear  the  bird's  song  without 
attempting  to  render  it  into  nouns  and  verbs.  Can- 


WORKS  AND  DAYS.  173 

not  we  be  a  little  abstemious  and  obedient  ?     Can 
not  we  let  the  morning  be  ? 

Everything  in  the  universe  goes  by  indirection. 
There  are  no  straight  lines.  I  remember  well  the 
foreign  scholar  who  made  a  week  of  my  youth 
happy  by  his  visit.  "  The  savages  in  the  islands," 
he  said,  "  delight  to  play  with  the  surf,  coming  in 
on  the  top  of  the  rollers,  then  swimming  out  again, 
and  repeat  the  delicious  manoeuvre  for  hours. 
Well,  human  life  is  made  up  of  such  transits. 
There  can  be  no  greatness  without  abandonment. 
But  here  your  very  astronomy  is  an  espionage.  I 
dare  not  go  out  of  doors  and  see  the  moon  and 
stars,  but  they  seem  to  measure  my  tasks,  to  ask 
how  many  lines  or  pages  are  finished  since  I  saw 
them  last.  Not  so,  as  I  told  you,  was  it  in  Belle- 
isle.  The  days  at  Belleisle  were  all  different,  and 
only  joined  by  a  perfect  love  of  the  same  object. 
Just  to  fill  the  hour,  —  that  is  happiness.  Fill  my 
hour,  ye  gods,  so  that  I  shall  not  say,  whilst  I  have 
done  this,  'Behold,  also,  an  hour  of  my  life  is 
gone,'  —  but  rather,  '  I  have  lived  an  hour.' ' 

We  do  not  want  factitious  men,  who  can  do  any 
literary  or  professional  feat,  as,  to  write  poems,  or 
advocate  a  cause,  or  carry  a  measure,  for  money  ; 
or  turn  their  ability  indifferently  in  any  particular 
direction  by  the  strong  effort  of  will.  No,  what 
has  been  best  done  in  the  world,  —  the  works  of 


174  WORKS  AND  DAYS. 

.  genius,  —  cost  nothing.  There  is  no  painful  effort, 
but  it  is  the  spontaneous  flowing  of  the  thought. 
Shakspeare  made  his  Hamlet  as  a  bird  weaves  its 
nest.  Poems  have  been  written  between  sleeping 
and  waking,  irresponsibly.  Fancy  defines  herself  : 

"  Forms  that  men  spy 
With  the  half -shut  eye 
In  the  beams  of  the  setting  sun,  am  I." 

The  masters  painted  for  joy,  and  knew  not  that 
virtue  had  gone  out  of  them.  They  could  not  paint 
the  like  in  cold  blood.  The  masters  of  English 
lyric  wrote  their  songs  so.  It  was  a  fine  efflores 
cence  of  fine  powers ;  as  was  said  of  the  letters 
of  the  Frenchwoman,  —  "the  charming  accident  of 
their  more  charming  existence."  Then  the  poet  is 
never  the  poorer  for  his  song.  A  song  is  no  song 
unless  the  circumstance  is  free  and  fine.  If  the 
singer  sing  from  a  sense  of  duty  or  from  seeing  no 
/way  of  escape,  I  had  rather  have  none.  Those  only 
can  sleep  who  do  not  care  to  sleep  ;  and  those  only 
write  or  speak  best  who  do  not  too  much  respect 
the  writing  or  the  speaking. 

The  same  rule  holds  in  science.  The  savant  is 
often  an  amateur.  His  performance  is  a  memoir 
to  the  Academy  on  fish-worms,  tadpoles,  or  spiders' 
legs ;  he  observes  as  other  academicians  observe ; 
he  is  on  stilts  at  a  microscope,  and  his  memoir 
finished  and  read  and  printed,  he  retreats  into 


WORKS 'AND  DAYS. 

his  routmary  existence,  which  is  quite  sep2 
from  his  scientific.  But  in  Newton,  science  was 
as  easy  as  breathing ;  he  used  the  same  wit  to  weigh 
the  moon  that  he  used  to  buckle  his  shoes ;  and  all 
his  life  was  simple,  wise,  and  majestic.  So  it  was 
in  Archimedes,  — •  always  self -same,  like  the  sky. 
In  Linnaeus,  in  Franklin,  the  like  sweetness  and 
equality,  —  no  stilts,  no  tiptoe ;  and  their  results 
are  wholesome  and  memorable  to  all  men. 

In  stripping  time  of  its  illusions,  in  seeking  to 
find  what  is  the  heart  of  the  day,  we  come  to  the 
quality  of  the  moment,  and  drop  the  duration  alto 
gether.  It  is  the  depth  at  which  we  live  and  not  at 
all  the  surface  extension  that  imports.  We  pierce 
to  the  eternity,  of  which  time  is  the  flitting  sur 
face  ;  and,  really,  the  least  acceleration  of  thought 
and  the  least  increase  of  power  of  thought,  make 
life  to  seem  and  to  be  of  vast  duration.  We  call 
it  time  ;  but  when  that  acceleration  and  that  deep 
ening  take  effect,  it  acquires  another  and  a  higher 
name. 

There  are  people  who  do  not  need  much  experi 
menting;  who,  after  years  of  activity,  say,  We 
knew  all  this  before ;  who  love  at  first  sight  and 
hate  at  first  sight ;  discern  the  affinities  and  repul 
sions  ;  who  do  not  care  so  much  for  conditions  as 
others,  for  they  are  always  in  one  condition  and 
enjoy  themselves ;  who  dictate  to  others  and  are 


176  WORKS  AND  DAYS. 

not  dictated  to  ;  who  in  their  consciousness  of  de 
serving  success  constantly  slight  the  ordinary  means 
of  attaining  it;  who  have  self-existence  and  self- 
help  ;  who  are  suffered  to  be  themselves  in  society ; 
who  are  great  in  the  present ;  who  have  no  talents, 
or  care  not  to  have  them,  —  being  that  which  was 
before  talent,  and  shall  be  after  it,  and  of  which 
talent  seems  only  a  tool:  'this  is  character,  the 
highest  name  at  which  philosophy  -has  arrived.  N 

'T  is  not  important  how  the  hero  does  this  or  this, 
but  what  he  is.  What  he  is  will  appear  in  every 
gesture  and  syllable.  In  this  way  the  moment  and 
the  character  are  one. 

It  is  a  fine  fable  for  the  advantage  of  character 
over  talent,  the  Greek  legend  of  the  strife  of  Jove 
and  Phoebus.  Phoebus  challenged  the  gods,  and 
said,  "  Who  will  outshoot  the  far-darting  Apollo  ?  " 
Zeus  said,  "  I  will."  Mars  shook  the  lots  in  his 
helmet,  and  that  of  Apollo  leaped  out  first.  Apollo 
stretched  his  bow  and  shot  his  arrow  into  the  ex 
treme  west.  Then  Zeus  arose,  and  with  one  stride 
cleared  the  whole  distance,  and  said,  "  Where  shall 
I  shoot?  there  is  no  space  left."  So  the  bowman's 
prize  was  adjudged  to  him  who  drew  no  bow. 

And  this  is  the  progress  of  every  earnest  mind  ; 
from  the  works  of  man  and  the  activity  of  the 
hands  to  a  delight  in  the  faculties  which  rule  them  ; 
from  a  respect  to  the  works  to  a  wise  wonder  at  this 


WORKS  AND  DAYS.  177 

mystic  element  of  time  in  which  he  is  conditioned ; 
from  local  skills  and  the  economy  which  reckons 
the  amount  of  production  per  hour  to  the  finer 
economy  which  respects  the  quality  of  what  is 
done,  and  the  right  we  have  to  the  work,  or  the 
fidelity  with  which  it  flows  from  ourselves ;  then 
to  the  depth  of  thought  it  betrays,  looking  to  its 
universality,  or  that  its  roots  are  in  eternity,  not  in 
time.  Then  it  flows  from  character,  that  sublime 
health  which  values  one  moment  as  another,  and 
makes  us  great  in  all  conditions,  and  as  the  only 
definition  we  have  of  freedom  and  power. 

VOL.   VII.  12 


BOOKS. 


BOOKS. 


IT  is  easy  to  accuse  books,  and  bad  ones  are 
easily  found  ;  and  the  best  are  but  records,  and 
not  the  thiags  recorded ;  and  certainly  there  is  di- 
lettanteism  enough,  and  books  that  are  merely  neu 
tral  and  do  nothing  for  us.  In  Plato's  Gorgias, 
Socrates  says  :  "  The  shipmaster  walks  in  a  modest 
garb  near  the  sea,  after  bringing  his  passengers 
from  ^Egina  or  from  Pontus  ;  not  thinking  he  has 
done  anything  extraordinary,  and  certainly  know 
ing  that  his  passengers  are  the  same  and  in  no 
respect  better  than  when  he  took  them  on  board." 
So  it  is  with  books,  for  the  most  part :  they  work 
no  redemption  in  us.  The  bookseller  might  cer 
tainly  know  that  his  customers  are  in  no  respect 
better  for  the  purchase  and  consumption  of  his 
wares.  The  volume  is  dear  at  a  dollar,  and  after 
reading  to  weariness  the  lettered  backs,  we  leave 
the  shop  with  a  sigh,  and  learn,  as  I  did  without 
surprise  of  a  surly  bank  director,  that  in  bank 
parlors  they  estimate  all  stocks  of  this  kind  as 
rubbish. 


182  BOOKS. 

But  it  is  not  less  true  that  there  are  books  which 
are  of  that  importance  in  a  man's  private  experi 
ence  as  to  verify  for  him  the  fables  of  Cornelius 
Agrippa,  of  Michael  Scott,  or  of  the  old  Orpheus  of 
Thrace,  —  books  which  take  rank  in  our  life  with 
parents  and  lovers  and  passionate  experiences,  so 
medicinal,  so  stringent,  so  revolutionary,  so  author 
itative,  —  books  which  are  the  work  and  the  proof 
of  faculties  so  comprehensive,  so  nearly  equal  to 
the  world  which  they  paint,  that  though  one  shuts 
them  with  meaner  ones,  he  feels  his  exclusion  from 
them  to  accuse  his  way  of  living. 

Consider  what  you  have  in  the  smallest  chosen 
library.  A  company  of  the  wisest  and  wittiest  men 
that  could  be  picked  out  of  all  civil  countries  in  a 
thousand  years  have  set  in  best  order  the  results  of 
their  learning  and  wisdom.  The  men  themselves 
were  hid  and  inaccessible,  solitary,  impatient  of 
interruption,  fenced  by  etiquette ;  but  the  thought 
which  they  did  not  uncover  to  their  bosom  friend 
is  here  written  out  in  transparent  words  to  us,  the 
strangers  of  another  age. 

We  owe  to  books  those  general  benefits  which 
come  from  high  intellectual  action.  Thus,  I  think, 
we  often  owe  to  them  the  perception  of  immortal 
ity.  They  impart  sympathetic  activity  to  the  moral 
power.  Go  with  mean  people  and  you  think  life 
is  mean.  Then  read  Plutarch,  and  the  world  is  a 


BOOKS.  183 

proud  place,  peopled  with  men  of  positive  quality, 
with  heroes  and  demigods  standing  around  us,  who 
will  not  let  us  sleep.  Then,  they  address  the  imag 
ination  :  only  poetry  inspires  poetry.  They  become 
the  organic  culture  of  the  time.  College  education 
is  the  reading  of  certain  books  which  the  common 
sense  of  all  scholars  agrees  will  represent  the  sci 
ence  already  accumulated.  If  you  know  that, — 
for  instance  in  geometry,  if  you  have  read  Euclid 
and  Laplace,  —  your  opinion  has  some  value ;  if 
you  do  not  know  these,  you  are  not  entitled  to  give 
any  opinion  on  the  subject.  Whenever  any  skep 
tic  or  bigot  claims  to  be  heard  on  the  questions  of 
intellect  and  morals,  we  ask  if  he  is  familiar  with 
the  books  of  Plato,  where  all  his  pert  objections 
have  once  for  all  been  disposed  of.  If  not,  he  has 
no  right  to  our  time.  Let  him  go  and  find  himself 
answered  there. 

Meantime  the  colleges,  whilst  they  provide  us 
with  libraries,  furnish  no  professor  of  books ;  and 
I  think  no  chair  is  so  much  wanted.  In  a  library 
we  are  surrounded  by  many  hundreds  of  dear 
friends,  but  they  are  imprisoned  by  an  enchanter 
in  these  paper  and  leathern  boxes ;  and  though  they 
know  us,  and  have  been  waiting  two,  ten,  or  twenty 
centuries  for  us,  —  some  of  them,  —  and  are  eager 
to  give  us  a  sign  and  unbosom  themselves,  it  is  the 
law  of  their  limbo  that  they  must  not  speak  until 


184  BOOKS. 

spoken  to  ;  and  as  the  enchanter  has  dressed  them, 
like  battalions  of  infantry,  in  coat  and  jacket  of 
one  cut,  by  the  thousand  and  ten  thousand,  your 
chance  of  hitting  on  the  right  one  is  to  be  com 
puted  by  the  arithmetical  rule  of  Permutation  and 
Combination,  —  not  a  choice  out  of  three  caskets, 
but  out  of  half  a  million  caskets,  all  alike.  But  it 
happens  in  our  experience  that  in  this  lottery  there 
are  at  least  fifty  or  a  hundred  blanks  to  a  prize. 
It  seems  then  as  if  some  charitable  soul,  after  losing 
a  great  deal  of  time  among  the  false  books  and 
alighting  upon  a  few  true  ones  which  make  him 
happy  and  wise,  would  do  a  right  act  in  naming 
those  which  have  been  bridges  or  ships  to  carry 
him  safely  over  dark  morasses  and  barren  oceans, 
into  the  heart  of  sacred  cities,  into  palaces  and 
temples.  This  would  be  best  done  by  those  great 
masters  of  books  who  from  time  to  time  appear,  — 
the  Fabricii,  the  Seldens,  Magliabecchis,  Scaligers, 
Mirandolas,  Bayles,  Johnsons,  whose  eyes  sweep 
the  whole  horizon  of  learning.  But  private  readers, 
reading  purely  for  love  of  the  book,  would  serve 
us  by  leaving  each  the  shortest  note  of  what  he 
found. 

There  are  books;  and  it  is  practicable  to  read 
them,  because  they  are  so  few.  We  look  over  with 
a  sigh  the  monumental  libraries  of  Paris,  of  the 
Vatican,  and  the  British  Museum.  In  1858,  the 


BOOKS.  185 

number  of  printed  books  in  the  Imperial  Library 
at  Paris  was  estimated  at  eight  hundred  thousand 
volumes,  with  an  annual  increase  of  twelve  thou 
sand  volumes ;  so  that  the  number  of  printed  books 
extant  to-day  may  easily  exceed  a  million.  It  is 
easy  to  count  the  number  of  pages  which  a  diligent 
man  can  read  in  a  day,  and  the  number  of  years 
which  human  life  in  favorable  circumstances  allows 
to  reading ;  and  to  demonstrate  that  though  he 
should  read  from  dawn  till  dark,  for  sixty  years, 
he  must  die  in  the  first  alcoves.  But  nothing  can 
be  more  deceptive  than  this  arithmetic,  where  none 
but  a  natural  method  is  really  pertinent.  I  visit 
occasionally  the  Cambridge  Library,  and  I  can 
seldom  go  there  without  renewing  the  conviction 
that  the  best  of  it  all  is  already  within  the  four 
walls  of  my  study  at  home.  The  inspection  of  the 
catalogue  brings  me  continually  back  to  the  few 
standard  writers  who  are  on  every  private  shelf; 
and  to  these  it  can  afford  only  the  most  slight  and 
casual  additions.  The  crowds  and  centuries  of 
books  are  only  commentary  and  elucidation,  echoes 
and  weakeners  of  these  few  great  voices  of  time. 

The  best  rule  of  reading  will  be  a  method  from 
nature,  and  not  a  mechanical  one  of  hours  and 
pages.  It  holds  each  student  to  a  .pursuit  of  his 
native  aim,  instead  of  a  desultory  miscellany.  Let 
him  read  what  is  proper  to  him,  and  not  waste  his 


186  BOOKS. 

memory  on  a  crowd  of  mediocrities.  As  whole 
nations  have  derived  their  culture  from  a  single 
book,  —  as  the  Bible  has  been  the  literature  as 
well  as  the  religion  of  large  portions  of  Europe  ;  as 
Hafiz  was  the  eminent  genius  of  the  Persians,  Con 
fucius  of  the  Chinese,  Cervantes  of  the  Spaniards  ; 
so,  perhaps,  the  human  mind  would  be  a  gainer 
if  all  the  secondary  writers  were  lost,  —  say,  in 
England,  all  but  Shakspeare,  Milton,  and  Bacon, 
—  through  the  profounder  study  so  drawn  to  those 
wonderful  minds.  With  this  pilot  of  his  own 
genius,  let  the  student  read  one,  or  let  him  read 
many,  he  will  read  advantageously.  Dr.  Johnson 
said  :  *'  Whilst  you  stand  deliberating  which  book 
your  son  shall  read  first,  another  boy  has  read  both : 
read  anything  five  hours  a  day,  and  you  will  soon 
be  learned." 

Nature  is  much  our  friend  in  this  matter.  Nature- 
is  always  clarifying  her  water  and  her  wine.  No 
filtration  can  be  so  perfect.  She  does  the  same 
thing  by  books  as  by  her  gases  and  plants.  There 
is  always  a  selection  in  writers,  and  then  a  selection 
from  the  selection.  In  the  first  place,  all  books 
that  get  fairly  into  the  vital  air  of  the  world  were 
written  by  the  successful  class,  by  the  affirming  and 
advancing  class,  who  utter  what  tens  of  thousands 
feel  though  they  cannot  say.  There  has  already 
been  a  scrutiny  and  choice  from  many  hundreds  of 


BOOKS.  187 

young^pens  before  the  pamphlet  or  political  chapter 
which  you  read  in  a  fugitive  journal  comes  to  your 
eye.  All  these  are  young  adventurers,  who  pro 
duce  their  performance  to  the  wise  ear  of  Time, 
who  sits  and  weighs,  and,  ten  years  hence,  out  of  a 
million  of  pages  reprints  one.  Again  it  is  judged^ 
it  is  winnowed  by  all  the  winds  of  opinion,  and 
what  terrific  selection  has  not  passed  on  it  before 
it  can  be  reprinted  after  twenty  years  ;  —  and  re 
printed  after  a  century  !  —  it  is  as  if  Minos  and 
Rhadamanthus  had  indorsed  the  writing.  'T  is 
therefore  an  economy  of  time  to  read  old  and  famed 
books.  Nothing  can  be  preserved  which  is  not 
good;  and  I  know  beforehand  that  Pindar,  Mar 
tial,  Terence,  Galen,  Kepler,  Galileo,  Bacon,  Eras 
mus,  More,  will  be  superior  to  the  average  intellect. 
In  contemporaries,  it  is  not  so  easy  to  distinguish 
betwixt  notoriety  and  fame. 

Be  sure  then  to  read  no  mean  books.  Shun  the 
spawn  of  the  press  on  the  gossip  of  the  hour.  Do 
not  read  what  you  shall  learn,  without  asking,  in 
the  street  and  the  train.  Dr.  Johnson  said  "  he 
always  went  into  stately  shops  ;  "  and  good  travel 
lers  stop  at  the  best  hotels  ;  for  though  they  cost 
more,  they  do  not  cost  much  more,  and  there  is  the 
good  company  and  the  best  information.  In  like 
manner  the  scholar  knows  that  the  famed  books 
contain,  first  and  last,  the  best  thoughts  and  facts. 


188  BOOKS. 

Now  and  then,  by  rarest  luck,  in  some  foolish  Grub 
Street  is  the  gem  we  want.  But  in  the  best  circles 
is  the  best  information.  If  you  should  transfer  the 
amount  of  your  reading  day  by  day  from  the  news 
paper  to  the  standard  authors But  who  dare 

speak  of  such  a  thing  ? 

The  three  practical  rules,  then,  which  I  have  to 
offer,  are,  —  1.  Never  read  any  book  that  is  not  a 
year  old.  2.  Never  read  any  but  famed  books. 
3.  Never  read  any  but  what  you  like  ;  or,  in  Shak- 
speare's  phrase,  — 

"  No  profit  goes  where  is  no  pleasure  ta'en  : 
In  brief,  sir,  study  what  you  most  affect." 

Montaigne  says,  "Books  are  a  languid  pleasure; " 
but  I  find  certain  books  vital  and  spermatic,  not 
leaving  the  reader  what  he  was  :  he  shuts  the  book 
a  richer  man.  I  would  never  willingly  read  any 
others  than  such.  And  I  will  venture,  at  the  risk 
of  inditing  a  list  of  old  primers  and  grammars,  to 
count  the  few  books  which  a  superficial  reader  must 
thankfully  use. 

Of  the  old  Greek  books,  I  think  there  are  five 
which  we  cannot  spare :  1.  Homer,  who  in  spite  of 
Pope  and  all  the  learned  uproar  of  centuries,  has 
really  the  true  fire  and  is  good  for  simple  minds,  is 
the  true  and  adequate  germ  of  Greece,  and  occupies 
that  place  as  history  which  nothing  can  supply.  It 


BOOKS.  189 

holds  through  all  literature  that  our  best  history  is 
still  poetry.  It  is  so  in  Hebrew,  in  Sanskrit,  and 
in  Greek.  English  history  is  best  known  through 
Shakspeare ;  how  much  through  Merlin,  Robin 
Hood,  and  the  Scottish  ballads  !  —  the  German, 
through  the  Nibelungenlied ;  —  the  Spanish,  through 
the  Cid.  O£  Homer,  George  Chapman's  is  the  he 
roic  translation,  though  the  most  literal  prose  ver 
sion  is  the  best  of  all.  2.  Herodotus,  whose  history 
contains  inestimable  anecdotes,  which  brought  it 
with  the  learned  into  a  sort  of  disesteem  ;  but  in 
these  days,  when  it  is  found  that  what  is  most  mem 
orable  of  history  is  a  few  anecdotes,  and  that  we 
need  not  be  alarmed  though  we  should  find  it  not 
dull,  it  is  regaining  credit.  3.  JEschylus,  the  grand 
est  of  the  three  tragedians,  who  has  given  us  under 
a  thin  veil  the  first  plantation  of  Europe.  The 
"  Prometheus  "  is  a  poem  of  the  like  dignity  and 
scope  as  the  Book  of  Job,  or  the  Norse  Edda. 
4.  Of  Plato  I  hesitate  to  speak,  lest  there  should 
be  no N  end.  You  find  in  him  that  which  you  have 
already  found  in  Homer,  now  ripened  to  thought, 
—  the  poet  converted  to  a  philosopher,  with  loftier 
strains  of  musical  wisdom  than  Homer  reached ;  as 
if  Homer  were  the  youth  and  Plato  the  finished 
man  ;  yet  with  no  less  security  of  bold  and  perfect 
song,  when  he  cares  to  use  it,  and  with  some  harp- 
strings  fetched  from  a  higher  heaven.  He  contains 


190  BOOKS. 

the  future,  as  he  came  out  of  the  past.     In  Plato 
you  explore  modern  Europe  in  its  causes  and  seed, 
—  all  that  in  thought,  which  the  history  of  Europe 
embodies  or  has  yet  to  embody.     The  well-informed 
man  finds  himself   anticipated.     Plato  is  up  with 
him  too.     Nothing  has  escaped  him.     Every  new 
crop  in  the  fertile  harvest  of  reform,  every  fresh 
suggestion  of  modern  humanity,  is  there.     If  the 
student  wish  to  see   both  sides,  and   justice  done 
to  the  man  of  the  world,  pitiless  exposure  of  ped 
ants,  and  the  supremacy  of  truth  and  the  religious 
sentiment,  he  shall  be  contented  also.     Why  should 
not   young  men   be  educated   on  this   book  ?     It 
would  suffice  for  the  tuition  of   the  race ;  to  test 
their  understanding,  and   to  express  their  reason. 
Here  is  that  which  is  so  attractive  to  all  men,  — 
the  literature  of  aristocracy  shall  I  call  it  ?  —  the 
picture  of  the  best  persons,  sentiments,  and  man 
ners,  by  the  first  master,  in  the  best  times ;  portraits 
of  Pericles,  Alcibiades,  Crito,  Prodicus,  Protagoras, 
Anaxagoras,  and    Socrates,  with  the  lovely  back 
ground  of  the  Athenian  and  suburban  landscape. 
Or   who  can  overestimate  the  images  with  which 
Plato  has  enriched  the  minds  of  men,  and  which 
pass  like  bullion  in  the  currency  of   all  nations  ? 
Eead  the  "  Phsedo,"  the  "  Protagoras,"  the  "  Pha3- 
drus,"  the  "  Timceus,"  the    "  Kepublic,"  and   the 
"  Apology  of   Socrates."     5.    Plutarch  cannot   be 


BOOKS.  191 

spared  from  the  smallest  library ;  first  because  he 
is  so  readable,  which  is  much ;  then  that  he  is 
medicinal  and  invigorating.  The  lives  of  Cimon, 
Lycurgus,  Alexander,  Demosthenes,  Phocion,  Mar- 
cellus,  and  the  rest,  are  what  history  has  of  best. 
But  this  book  has  taken  care  of  itself,  and  the 
opinion  of  the  world  is  expressed  in  the  innumer 
able  cheap  editions,  which  make  it  as  accessible  as 
a  newspaper.  But  Plutarch's  "  Morals  "  is  less 
known,  and  seldom  reprinted.  Yet  such  a  reader 
as  I  am  writing  to  can  as  ill  spare  it  as  the 
"  Lives."  He  will  read  in  it  the  essays  "  On  the 
Daemon  of  Socrates,"  "  On  Isis  and  Osiris,"  "  On 
Progress  in  Virtue,"  "On  Garrulity,"  "On  Love;" 
and  thank  anew  the  art  of  printing  and  the  cheer 
ful  domain  of  ancient  thinking.  Plutarch  charms 
by  the  facility  of  his  associations  ;  so  that  it  signi 
fies  little  where  you  open  his  book,  you  find  yourself 
at  the  Olympian  tables.  His  memory  is  like  the 
Isthmian  Games,  where  all  that  was  excellent  in 
Greece  was  assembled ;  and  you  are  stimulated  and 
recruited  by  lyric  verses,  by  philosophic  sentiments, 
by  the  forms  and  behavior  of  heroes,  by  the  wor 
ship  of  the  gods,  and  by  the  passing  of  fillets,  pars 
ley  and  laurel  wreaths,  chariots,  armor,  sacred  cups, 
and  utensils  of  sacrifice.  An  inestimable  trilogy  of 
ancient  social  pictures  are  the  three  "  Banquets  " 
respectively  of  Plato,  Xenophon,  and  Plutarch. 


192  BOOKS. 

Plutarch's  lias  the  least  approach  to  historical  accu 
racy  ;  but  the  meeting  of  the  Seven  Wise  Masters 
is  a  charming  portraiture  of  ancient  manners  and 
discourse,  and  is  as  clear  as  the  voice  of  a  fife,  and 
entertaining  as  a  French  novel.  Xenophon's  de 
lineation  of  Athenian  manners  is  an  accessory  to 
Plato,  and  supplies  traits  of  Socrates ;  whilst  Plato's 
has  merits  of  every  kind,  —  being  a  repertory  of 
the  wisdom  of  the  ancients  on  the  subject  of  love  ; 
a  picture  of  a  feast  of  wits,  not  less  descriptive 
than  Aristophanes ;  and,  lastly,  containing  that  iron 
ical  eulogy  of  Socrates  which  is  the  source  from 
which  all  the  portraits  of  that  philosopher  current 
in  Europe  have  been  drawn. 

Of  course  a  certain  outline  should  be  obtained  of 
Greek  history,  in  which  the  important  moments 
and  persons  can  be  rightly  set  down ;  but  the  short 
est  is  the  best,  and  if  one  lacks  stomach  for  Mr. 
Grote's  voluminous  annals,  the  old  slight  and  pop 
ular  summary  of  Goldsmith  or  of  Gillies  will  serve. 
The  valuable  part  is  the  age  of  Pericles  and  the 
next  generation.  And  here  we  must  read  the 
"  Clouds  "  of  Aristophanes,  and  what  more  of  that 
master  we  gain  appetite  for,  to  learn  our  way  in 
the  streets  of  Athens,  and  to  know  the  tyranny 
of  Aristophanes,  requiring  more  genius  and  some 
times  not  less  cruelty  than  belonged  to  the  official 
commanders.  Aristophanes  is  now  very  accessible, 


BOOKS.  *  193 

with  much  valuable  commentary,  through  the  la 
bors  of  Mitchell  and  Cartwright.  An  excellent 
popular  book  is  J.  A.  St.  John's  "Ancient  Greece;" 
the  "  Life  and  Letters "  of  Niebuhr,  even  more 
than  his  Lectures,  furnish  leading  views ;  and 
Winckelmann,  a  Greek  born  out  of  due  time,  has 
become  essential  to  an  intimate  knowledge  of  the 
Attic  genius.  The  secret  of  the  recent  histories  in 
German  and  in  English  is  the  discovery,  owed  first 
to  Wolff  and  later  to  Boeckh,  that  the  sincere 
Greek  history  of  that  period  must  be  drawn  from 
Demosthenes,  especially  from  the  business  ora 
tions  ;  and  from  the  comic  poets. 

If  we  come  down  a  little  by  natural  steps  from 
the  master  to  the  disciples,  we  have,  six  or  seven 
centuries  later,  the  Platonists,  who  also  cannot  be 
skipped,  —  Plotinus,  Porphyry,  Proclus,  Synesius, 
Jamblichus.  Of  Jamblichus  the  Emperor  Julian 
said  that  "  he  was  posterior  to  Plato  in  time,  not 
in  genius."  Of  Plotinus,  we  have  eulogies  by  Por 
phyry  and  Longinus,  and  the  favor  of  the  Emperor 
Gallienus,  indicating  the  respect  he  inspired  among 
his  contemporaries.  If  any  one  who  had  read  with 
interest  the  "  Isis  and  Osiris  "  of  Plutarch  should 
then  read  a  chapter  called  "  Providence,"  by  Sy 
nesius,  translated  into  English  by  Thomas  Taylor, 
he  will  find  it  one  of  the  majestic  remains  of  liter 
ature,  and,  like  one  walking  in  the  noblest  of  tem.- 

VOL.   VII.  13 


194  BOOKS. 

pies,  will  conceive  new  gratitude  to  his  fellow-men, 
and  a  new  estimate  of  their  nobility.  The  imagi 
native  scholar  will  find  few  stimulants  to  his  brain 
like  these  writers.  Pie  has  entered  the  Elysiaii 
Fields  ;  and  the  grand  and  pleasing  figures  of  gods 
and  daemons  and  daemoniacal  men,  of  the  "  azonic  " 
and  the  "  aquatic  gods,"  daemons  with  fulgid  eyes, 
and  all  the  rest  of  the  Platonic  rhetoric,  exalted  a 
little  under  the  African  sun,  sail  before  his  eyes. 
The  acolyte  has  mounted  the  tripod  over  the  cave 
at  Delphi ;  his  heart  dances,  his  sight  is  quickened. 
These  guides  speak  of  the  gods  with  such  depth 
and  with  such  pictorial  details,  as  if  they  had  been 
bodily  present  at  the  Olympian  feasts.  The  reader 
of  these  books  makes  new  acquaintance  with  his 
own  mind  ;  new  regions  of  thought  are  opened. 
Jamblichus's  "  Life  of  Pythagoras  "  works  more 
directly  on  the  will  than  the  others ;  since  Pythago 
ras  was  eminently  a  practical  person,  the  founder 
of  a  school  of  ascetics  and  socialists,  a  planter  of 
colonies,  and  nowise  a  man  of  abstract  studies 
alone. 

The  respectable  and  sometimes  excellent  transla 
tions  of  Bonn's  Library  have  done  for  literature 
what  railroads  have  done  for  internal  intercourse. 
I  do  not  hesitate  to  read  all  the  books  I  have 
named,  and  all  good  books,  in  translations.  What 
is  really  best  in  any  book  is  translatable,  —  any 


BOOKS.  195 

real  insight  or  broad  human  sentiment.  Nay,  I 
observe  that,  in  our  Bible,  and  other  books  of  lofty 
moral  tone,  it  seems  easy  and  inevitable  to  render 
the  rhythm  and  music  of  the  original  into  phrases 
of  equal  melody.  The  Italians  have  a  fling  at 
translators,  —  i  traditori  traduttori  ;  but  I  thank 
them.  I  rarely  read  any  Latin,  Greek,  German, 
Italian,  sometimes  not  a  French  book,  in  the  origi 
nal,  which  I  can  procure  in  a  good  version.  I  like 
to  be  beholden  to  the  great  metropolitan  English 
speech,  the  sea  which  receives  tributaries  from 
every  region  under  heaven.  I  should  as  soon  think 
of  swimming  across  Charles  River  when  I  wish  to 
go  to  Boston,  as  of  reading  all  my  books  in  origi 
nals  when  I  have  them  rendered  for  me  in  my 
mother-tongue. 

For  history  there  is  great  choice  of  ways  to 
bring  the  student  through  early  Rome.  If  he  can 
read  Livy,  he  has  a  good  book ;  but  one  of  the 
short  English  compends,  some  Goldsmith  or  Fergu 
son,  should  be  used,  that  will  place  in  the  cycle  the 
bright  stars  of  Plutarch.  The  poet  Horace  is  the 
eye  of  the  Augustan  age  ;  Tacitus,  the  wisest  of 
historians;  and  Martial  will  give  him  Roman  man 
ners, —  and  some  very  bad  ones, — in  the  early 
days  of  the  Empire :  but  Martial  must  be  read,  if 
read  at  all,  in  his  own  tongue.  These  will  bring 
him  to  Gibbon,  who  will  take  him  in  charge  and 


196  BOOKS. 

convey  him  with  abundant  entertainment  down  — 
with  notice  of  all  remarkable  objects  on  the  way  — 
through  fourteen  hundred  years  of  time.  He  can 
not  spare  Gibbon,  with  his  vast  reading,  with  such 
wit  and  continuity  of  mind,  that,  though  never  pro 
found,  his  book  is  one  of  the  conveniences  of  civili 
zation,  like  the  new  railroad  from  ocean  to  ocean, 
—  and,  I  think,  will  be  sure  to  send  the  reader  to 
his  "  Memoirs  of  Himself,"  and  the  "  Extracts 
from  my  Journal,"  and  "Abstracts  of  my  Bead- 
ings,"  which  will  spur  the  laziest  scholar  to  emula 
tion  of  his  prodigious  performance. 

Now  having  our  idler  safe  down  as  far  as  the 
fall  of  Constantinople  in  1453,  he  is  in  very  good 
courses ;  for  here  are  trusty  hands  waiting  for  him. 
The  cardinal  facts  of  European  history  are  soon 
learned.  There  is  Dante's  poem,  to  open  the  Ital 
ian  Eepublics  of  the  Middle  Age  ;  Dante's  "  Vita 
Nuova,"  to  explain  Dante  and  Beatrice ;  and  Boc 
caccio's  "  Life  of  Dante,"  a  great  man  to  describe 
a  greater.  To  help  us,  perhaps  a  volume  or  two 
of  M.  Sismondi's  "  Italian  Republics  "  will  be  as 
good  as  the  entire  sixteen.  When  we  come  to 
Michael  Angelo,  his  Sonnets  and  Letters  must  be 
read,  with  his  Life  by  Vasari,  or,  in  our  day,  by 
Herman  Grimm.  For  the  Church  and  the  Feudal 
Institution,  Mr.  Hallam's  "Middle  Ages"  will  fur 
nish,  if  superficial,  yet  readable  and  conceivable 
outlines. 


BOOKS.  197 

The  "  Life  of  the  Emperor  Charles  V.,"  by  the 
useful  Robertson,  is  still  the  key  of  the  following 
age.  Ximenes,  Columbus,  Loyola,  Luther,  Eras 
mus,  Melanchthon,  Francis  I.,  Henry  VIII.,  Eliza 
beth,  and  Henry  IV.  of  France,  are  his  contem 
poraries.  It  is  a  time  of  seeds  and  expansions, 
whereof  our  recent  civilization  is  the  fruit. 

If  now  the  relations  of  England  to  European  af 
fairs  bring  him  to  Britisli  ground,  he  is  arrived  at 
the  very  moment  when  modern  history  takes  new 
proportions.  He  can  look  back  for  the  legends 
and  mythology  to  the  "  Younger  Edda  "  and  the 
"  Heimskringla  "  of  Snorro  Sturleson,  to  Mallet's 
"  Northern  Antiquities,"  to  Ellis's  "  Metrical  Ro 
mances,"  to  Asser's  "  Life  of  Alfred  "  and  Vener 
able  Bede,  and  to  the  researches  of  Sharon  Turner 
and  Palgrave.  Hume  will  serve  him  for  an  intelli 
gent  guide,  and  in  the  Elizabethan  era  he  is  at  the 
richest  period  of  the  English  mind,  with  the  chief 
men  of  action  and  of  thought  which  that  nation  has 
produced,  and  with  a  pregnant  future  before  him. 
Here  he  has  Shakspeare,  Spenser,  Sidney,  Raleigh, 
Bacon,  Chapman,  Jonson,  Ford,  Beaumont  and 
Fletcher,  Herbert,  Donne,  Herrick  ;  and  Milton, 
Marvell,  and  Dry  den,  not  long  after. 

In  reading  history,  he  is  to  prefer  the  history  of 
individuals.  He  will  not  repent  the  time  he  gives 
to  Bacon,  —  not  if  lie  read  the  "  Advancement  of 


198  BOOKS. 

Learning,"  the  "  Essays,"  the  "  Novum  Organum," 
the  "  History  of  Henry  VII.,"  and  then  all  tho 
"Letters  "  (especially  those  to  the  Earl  of  Devon 
shire,  explaining  the  Essex  business),  and  all  but 
his  "  Apophthegms." 

The  task  is  aided  by  the  strong  mutual  light 
which  these  men  shed  on  each  other.  Thus,  the 
works  of  Ben  Jonson  are  a  sort  of  hoop  to  bind  all 
these  fine  persons  together,  and  to  the  land  to  which 
they  belong.  He  has  written  verses  to  or  on  all 
his  notable  contemporaries  ;  and  what  with  so  many 
occasional  poems,  and  the  portrait  sketches  in  his 
"  Discoveries,"  and  the  gossiping  record  of  his 
opinions  in  his  conversations  with  Drummond  of 
Hawthornden,  he  has  really  illustrated  the  England 
of  his  time,  if  not  to  the  same  extent  yet  much  in 
the  same  way,  as  Walter  Scott  has  celebrated  the 
persons  and  places  of  Scotland.  Walton,  Chap 
man,  Herrick,  and  Sir  Henry  Wotton  write  also 
to  the  times. 

Among  the  best  books  are  certain  Autobiogra 
phies  ;  as,  St.  Augustine's  Confessions ;  Benvenuto 
Cellini's  Life  ;  Montaigne's  Essays  ;  Lord  Herbert 
of  Cherbury's  Memoirs ;  Memoirs  of  the  Cardinal 
de  Retz ;  Eousseau's  Confessions ;  Linnaeus's  Di 
ary  ;  Gibbon's,  Hume's,  Franklin's,  Burns's,  Al- 
fieri's,  Goethe's,  and  Haydon's  Autobiographies. 

Another  class  of  books  closely  allied  to  these,  and 


BOOKS.  199 

of  like  interest,  are  those  which  may  be  called 
Table- Talks:  of  which  the  best  are  Saadi's  Gu- 
listan  ;  Luther's  Table  -  Talk ;  Aubrey's  Lives ; 
Spence's  anecdotes  ;  Selden's  Table  -  Talk ;  Bos- 
well's  Life  of  Johnson ;  Eckermann's  Conversa 
tions  with  Goethe  ;  Coleridge's  Table  -  Talk ;  and 
Hazlitt's  Life  of  Northcote. 

There  is  a  class  whose  value  I  should  designate 
as  Favorites :  such  as  Froissart's  Chronicles ; 
Southey's  Chronicle  of  the  Cid ;  Cervantes ;  Sul- 
ly's  Memoirs ;  Rabelais ;  Montaigne ;  Izaak  Wal 
ton  ;  Evelyn ;  Sir  Thomas  Browne ;  Aubrey ; 
Sterne  ;  Horace  Walpole  ;  Lord  Clarendon ;  Doctor 
Johnson;  Burke,  shedding  floods  of  light  on  his 
times ;  Lamb  ;  Landor  ;  and  De  Quincey ;  —  a  list, 
of  course,  that  may  easily  be  swelled,  as  dependent 
on  individual  caprice.  Many  men  are  as  tender 
and  irritable  as  lovers  in  reference  to  these  predilec 
tions.  Indeed,  a  man's  library  is  a  sort  of  harem, 
and  I  observe  that  tender  readers  have  a  great  pu 
dency  in  showing  their  books  to  a  stranger. 

The  annals  of  bibliography  afford  many  examples 
of  the  delirious  extent  to  which  book-fancying  can 
go,  when  the  legitimate  delight  in  a  book  is  trans 
ferred  to  a  rare  edition  or  to  a  manuscript.  This 
mania  reached  its  height  about  the  beginning  of  the 
present  century.  For  an  autograph  of  Shakspeare 
one  hundred  and  fifty-five  guineas  were  given.  In 


.200  BOOKS. 

May,  1812,  the  library  of  the  Duke  of  Roxburgh 
was  sold.  The  sale  lasted  forty  -  two  days,  —  we 
abridge  the  story  from  Dibdin,  —  and  among  the 
many  curiosities  was  a  copy  of  Boccaccio  published 
by  Valdarfer,  at  Venice,  in  1571 ;  the  only  perfect 
copy  of  this  edition.  Among  the  distinguished 
company  which  attended  the  sale  were  the  Duke 
of  Devonshire,  Earl  Spencer,  and  the  Duke  of 
Marlborough,  then  Marquis  of  Blandford.  The 
bid  stood  at  five  hundred  guineas.  "  A  thousand 
guineas,"  said  Earl  Spencer :  "  And  ten,"  added 
the  Marquis.  You  might  hear  a  pin  drop.  All  eyes 
were  bent  on  the  bidders.  Now  they  talked  apart, 
now  ate  a  biscuit,  now  made  a  bet,  but  without  the 
least  thought  of  yielding  one  to  the  other.  But 
to  pass  over  some  details,  —  the  contest  proceeded 
until  the  Marquis  said,  "  Two  thousand  pounds." 
Earl  Spencer  bethought  him  like  a  prudent  general 
of  useless  bloodshed  and  waste  of  powder,  and  had 
paused  a  quarter  of  a  minute,  when  Lord  Althorp 
with  long  steps  came  to  his  side,  as  if  to  bring  his 
father  a  fresh  lance  to  renew  the  fight.  Father 
and  son  whispered  together,  and  Earl  Spencer  ex 
claimed,  "  Two  thousand  two  hundred  and  fifty 
pounds  !  "  An  electric  shock  went  through  the 
assembly.  "  And  ten,"  quietly  added  the  Marquis. 
There  ended  the  strife.  Ere  Evans  let  the  hammer 
fall,  he  paused ;  the  ivory  instrument  swept  the 


BOOKS.  201 

air ;  the  spectators  stood  dumb,  when  the  hammer 
fell.  The  stroke  of  its  fall  sounded  on  the  farthest 
shores  of  .Italy.  The  tap  of  that  hammer  was 
heard  in  the  libraries  of  Rome,  Milan,  and  Venice. 
Boccaccio  stirred  in  his  sleep  of  five  hundred  years, 
and  M.  Van  Praet  groped  in  vain  among  the  royal 
alcoves  in  Paris,  to  detect  a  copy  of  the  famed  Val- 
darfer  Boccaccio. 

Another  class  I  distinguish  by  the  term  Vocabu 
laries.  Burton's  "  Anatomy  of  Melancholy  "  is  a 
book  of  great  learning.  To  read  it  is  like  reading 
in  a  dictionary.  'T  is  an  inventory  to  remind  us 
how  many  classes  and  species  of  facts  exist,  and, 
in  observing  into  what  strange  and  multiplex  by 
ways  learning  has  strayed,  to  infer  our  opulence. 
Neither  is  a  dictionary  a  bad  book  to  read.  There 
is  no  cant  in  it,  no  excess  of  explanation,  and  it  is 
full  of  suggestion,  —  the  raw  material  of  possible 
poems  and  histories.  Nothing  is  wanting  but  a  lit 
tle  shuffling,  sorting,  ligature,  and  cartilage.  Out 
of  a  hundred  examples,  Cornelius  Agrippa  "  On  the 
Vanity  of  Arts  and  Sciences  "  is  a  specimen  of  that 
scribatiousness  which  grew  to  be  the  habit  of  the 
gluttonous  readers  of  his  time.  Like  the  modern 
Germans,  they  read  a  literature  while  other  mortals 
read  a  few  books.  They  read  voraciously,  and  must 
disburden  themselves ;  so  they  take  any  general 
topic,  as  Melancholy,  or  Praise  of  Science,  or  Praise 


202  BOOKS. 

of  Folly,  and  write  and  quote  without  method  or 
end.  Now  and  then  out  of  that  affluence  of  their 
learning  comes  a  fine  sentence  from  Theophrastus, 
or  Seneca,  or  Boethius,  but  no  high  method,  no  in 
spiring  efflux.  But  one  cannot  afford  to  read  for  a 
few  sentences ;  they  are  good  only  as  strings  of  sug 
gestive  words. 

There  is  another  class,  more  needful  to  the  pres 
ent  age,  because  the  currents  of  custom  run  now  in 
another  direction  and  leave  us  dry  on  this  side; 
- 1  mean  the  Imaginative.  A  right  metaphysics 
should  do  justice  to  the  co-ordinate  powers  of  Imag 
ination,  Insight,  Understanding,  and  Will.  Poetry, 
with  its  aids  of  Mythology  and  Romance,  must  be 
well  allowed  for  an  imaginative  creature.  Men 
are  ever  lapsing  into  a  beggarly  habit,  wherein 
everything  that  is  not  ciphering,  that  is,  which  does 
not  serve  the  tyrannical  animal,  is  hustled  out  of 
sight.  Our  orators  and  writers  are  of  the  same 
poverty,  and  in  this  rag-fair  neither  the  Imagina 
tion,  the  great  awakening  power,  nor  the  Morals, 
creative  of  genius  and  of  men,  are  addressed.  But 
though  orator  and  poet  be  of  this  hunger  party, 
the  capacities  remain.  We  must  have  symbols. 
The  child  asks  you  for  a  story,  and  is  thankful  for 
the  poorest.  It  is  not  poor  to  him,  but  radiant  with 
meaning.  The  man  asks  for  a  novel,  —  that  is, 
asks  leave  for  a  few  hours  to  be  a  poet,  and  to 


BOOKS.  203 

paint  things  as  they  ought  to  be.  The  youth  asks 
for  a  poem.  The  very  dunces  wish  to  go  to  the 
theatre.  What  private  heavens  can  we  not  open, 
by  yielding  to  all  the  suggestion  of  rich  music !  We 
must  have  idolatries,  mythologies,  —  some  swing 
and  verge  for  the  creative  power  lying  coiled  and 
cramped  here,  driving  ardent  natures  to  insanity 
and  crime  if  it  do  not  find  vent.  Without  the 
great  arts  which  speak  to  the  sense  of  beauty,  a 
man  seems  to  me  a  poor,  naked,  shivering  crea 
ture.  These  are  his  becoming  draperies,  which 
warm  and  adorn  him.  Whilst  the  prudential  and 
economical  tone  of  society  starves  the  imagination, 
affronted  Nature  gets  such  indemnity  as  she  may. 
The  novel  is  that  allowance  and  frolic  the  imagina 
tion  finds.  Everything  else  pins  it  down,  and  men 
flee  for  redress  to  Byron,  Scott,  Disraeli,  Dumas, 
Sand-,  Balzac,  Dickens,  Thackeray,  and  Reade. 
Their  education  is  neglected  ;  but  the  circulating- 
library  and  the  theatre,  as  well  as  the  trout-fishing, 
the  Notch  Mountains,  the  Adirondack  country,  the 
tour  to  Mont  Blanc,  to  the  White  Hills  and  the 
Ghauts,  make  such  amends  as  they  can. 

The  imagination  infuses  a  certain  volatility  and 
intoxication.  It  has  a  flute  which  sets  the  atoms 
of  our  frame  in  a  dance,  like  planets ;  and  once  so 
liberated,  the  whole  man  reeling  drunk  to  the  mu 
sic,  they  never  quite  subside  to  their  old  stony  state. 


204  BOOKS. 

But  what  is  the  imagination  ?  Only  an  arm  or 
weapon  of  the  interior  energy  ;  only  the  precursor 
of  the  reason.  And  books  that  treat  the  old  ped 
antries  of  the  world,  our  times,  places,  professions, 
customs,  opinions,  histories,  with  a  certain  freedom, 
and  distribute  things,  not  after  the  usages  of  Amer 
ica  and  Europe  but  after  the  laws  of  right  reason, 
and  with  as  daring  a  freedom  as  we  use  in  dreams, 
put  us  011  our  feet  again,  enable  us  to  form  an 
original  judgment  of  our  duties,  and  suggest  new 
thoughts  for  to-niorrow. 

"Lucrezia  Floriani,"  "Le  Pe'che'  de  M.  Antoine," 
"  Jeanne,"  and  "  Consuelo,"  of  George  Sand,  are 
great  steps  from  the  novel  of  one  termination, 
which  we  all  read  twenty  years  ago.  Yet  how  far 
off  from  life  and  manners  and  motives  the  novel 
still  is !  Life  lies  about  us  dumb  ;  the  day,  as  we 
know  it,  has  not  yet  found  a  tongue.  These  stories 
are  to  the  plots  of  real  life  what  the  figures  in  "La 
Belle  Assemblee,"  which  represent  the  fashion  of 
the  month,  are  to  portraits.  But  the  novel  will 
find  the  way  to  our  interiors  one  day,  and  will  not 
always  be  the  novel  of  costume  merely.  I  do  not 
think  it  inoperative  now.  So  much  novel-read 
ing  cannot  leave  the  young  men  and  maidens  un 
touched  ;  and  doubtless  it  gives  some  ideal  dignity 
to  the  day.  The  young  study  noble  behavior ;  and 
as  the  player  in  "  Consuelo  "  insists  that  he  and  his 


BOOKS.  205 

colleagues  on  the  boards  have  taught  princes  the 
fine  etiquette  and  strokes  of  grace  and  dignity  which 
they  practise  with  so  much  effect  in  their  villas 
and  among  their  dependents,  so  I  often  see  traces 
of  the  Scotch  or  the  French  novel  in  the  courtesy 
and  brilliancy  of  young  midshipmen,  collegians, 
and  clerks.  Indeed,  when  one  observes  how  ill  and 
ugly  people  make  their  loves  and  quarrels,  't  is  pity 
they  should  not  read  novels  a  little  more,  to  import 
the  fine  generosities  and  the  clear,  firm  conduct, 
which  are  as  becoming  in  the  unions  and  separa 
tions  which  love  effects  under  shingle  roofs  as  in 
palaces  and  among  illustrious  personages. 

In  novels  the  most  serious  questions  are  begin 
ning  to  be  discussed.  What  made*  the  popularity 
of  "  Jane  Eyre,"  but  that  a  central  question  was 
answered  in  some  sort  ?  The  question  there  an 
swered  in  regard  to  a  vicious  marriage  will  always 
be  treated  according  to  the  habit  of  the  party.  A 
person  of  commanding  individualism  will  answer 
it  as  Eochester  does,  —  as  Cleopatra,  as  Milton,  as 
George  Sand  do,  —  magnifying  the  exception  into 
a  rule,  dwarfing  the  world  into  an  exception.  A 
person  of  less  courage,  that  is  of  less  constitution, 
will  answer  as  the  heroine  does,  —  giving  way  to 
fate,  to  conventionalism,  to  the  actual  state  and 
doings  of  men  and  women. 

For  the  most  part,  our  novel-reading  is  a  passion 


206  BOOKS. 

for  results.  We  admire  parks,  and  high-born  beau 
ties,  and  the  homage  of  drawing-rooms  and  parlia 
ments.  They  make  us  skeptical,  by  giving  promi 
nence  to  wealth  and  social  position. 

I  remember  when  some  peering  eyes  of  boys  dis 
covered  that  the  oranges  hanging  on  the  boughs 
of  an  orange-tree  in  a  gay  piazza  were  tied  to  the 
twigs  by  thread.  I  fear  't  is  so  with  the  novelist's 
prosperities.  Nature  has  a  magic  by  which  she 
fits  the  man  to  his  fortunes,  by  making  them  the 
fruit  of  his  character.  But  the  novelist  plucks  this 
event  here  and  that  fortune  there,  and  ties  them 
rashly  to  his  figures,  to  tickle  the  fancy  of  his 
readers  with  a  cloying  success  or  scare  them  with 
shocks  of  tragedy.  And  so,  011  the  whole,  'tis  a 
juggle.  We  are  cheated  into  laughter  or  wonder 
by  feats  which  only  oddly  combine  acts  that  we 
do  every  day.  There  is  110  new  element,  no  power, 
no  furtherance.  'Tis  only  confectionery,  not  the 
raising  of  new  corn.  Great  is  the  poverty  of  their 
inventions.  She  was  beautiful  and  he  fell  in  love. 
Money,  and  killing,  and  the  Wandering  Jew,  and 
persuading  the  lover  that  his  mistress  is  betrothed 
to  another,  these  are  the  main-springs ;  new  names, 
but  110  new  qualities  in  the  men  and  women.  Hence 
the  vain  endeavor  to  keep  any  bit  of  this  fairy  gold 
which  has  rolled  like  a  brook  through  our  hands.  A 
thousand  thoughts  awoke ;  great  rainbows  seemed 


BOOKS.  207 

to  span  the  sky,  a  morning  among  the  mountains  ; 
but  we  close  the  book  and  not  a  ray  remains  in  the 
memory  of  evening.  But  this  passion  for  romance, 
and  this  disappointment,  show  how  much  we  need 
real  elevations  and  pure  poetry :  that  which  shall 
show  us,  in  morning  and  night, 'in  stars  and  moun 
tains  and  in  all  the  plight  and  circumstance  of 
men,  the  analogous  of  our  own  thoughts,  and  a  like 
impression  made  by  a  just  book  and  by  the  face  of 
Nature. 

If  our  times  are  sterile  in  genius,  we  must  cheer 
us  with  books  of  rich  and  believing  men  who  had 
atmosphere  and  amplitude  about  them.  Every 
good  fable,  every  mythology,  every  biography  from 
a  religious  age,  every  passage  of  love,  and  even 
philosophy  and  science,  when  they  proceed  from 
an  intellectual  integrity  and  are  not  detached  and 
critical,  have  the  imaginative  element.  The  Greek 
fables,  the  Persian  history  (Firdusi),  the  "  Younger 
Edda"  of  the  Scandinavians,  the  "  Chronicle  of  the 
Cid,"  the  poem  of  Dante,  the  Sonnets  of  Michel 
Angelo,  the  English  drama  of  Shakspeare,  Beau 
mont  and  Fletcher,  and  Ford,  and  even  the  prose 
of  Bacon  and  Milton,  —  in  our  time  the  Ode  of 
Wordsworth,  and  the  poems  and  the  prose  of 
Goethe,  have  this  enlargement,  and  inspire  hopo 
and  generous  attempts. 

There  is  no  room  left,  —  and  yet  I  might  as  well 


.208  BOOKS. 

not  have  begun  as  to  leave  out  a  class  of  books 
which  are  the  best :  I  mean  the  Bibles  of  the  world, 
or  the  sacred  books  of  each  nation,  which  express 
for  each  the  supreme  result  of  their  experience. 
After  the  Hebrew  and  Greek  Scriptures,  which 
constitute  the  sacred  books  of  Christendom,  these 
are,  the  Desatir  of  the  Persians,  and  the  Zoroas- 
trian  Oracles ;  the  Vedas  and  Laws  of  Menu ; 
the  Upanishads,  the  Vishnu  Purana,  the  Bhagvat 
Geeta,  of  the  Hindoos  ;  the  books  of  the  Buddhists ; 
the  "  Chinese  Classic,"  of  four  books,  containing 
the  wisdom  of  Confucius  and  Mencius.  Also  such 
other  books  as  have  acquired  a  semi-canonical  au 
thority  in  the  world,  as  expressing  the  highest  sen 
timent  and  hope  of  nations.  Such  are  the  "  Her 
mes  Trismegistus,"  pretending  to  be  Egyptian  re 
mains  ;  the  "  Sentences  "  of  Epictetus ;  of  Marcus 
Antoninus;  the  "Yishnu  Sarma  "  of  the  Hindoos; 
the  "Gulistan"  of  Saadi;  the  "Imitation  of  Christ," 
of  Thomas  a  Kempis  ;  and  the  "  Thoughts  "  of 
Pascal.  * 

All  these  books  are  the  majestic  expressions  of 
the  universal  conscience,  and  are  more  to  our  daily 
purpose  than  this  year's  almanac  or  this  day's  news 
paper.  But  they  are  for  the  closet,  and  to  be  read 
on  the  bended  knee.  Their  communications  are 
not  to  be  given  or  taken  with  the  lips  and  the  end 
of  the  tongue,  but  out  of  the  glow  of  the  cheek,  and 


BOOKS.  209 

with  the  throbbing  heart.  Friendship  should  give 
and  take,  solitude  and  time  brood  and  ripen,  heroes 
absorb  and  enact  them.  They  are  not  to  be  held 
by  letters  printed  on  a  page,  but  are  living  charac 
ters  translatable  into  every  tongue  and  form  of  life. 
I  read  them  on  lichens  and  bark ;  I  watch  them  on 
waves  on  the  beach ;  they  fly  in  birds,  they  creep 
in  worms ;  I  detect  them  in  laughter  and  blushes 
and  eye-sparkles  of  men  and  women.  These  are 
Scriptures  which  the  missionary  might  well  carry 
over  prairie,  desert,  and  ocean,  to  Siberia,  Japan, 
Timbtictoo.  Yet  he  will  find  that  the  spirit  which 
is  in  them  journeys  faster  than  he,  and  greets  him 
on  his  arrival,  —  was  there  already  long  before  him. 
The  missionary  must  be  carried  by  it,  and  find  it 
there,  or  he  goes  in  vain.  Is  there  any  geography 
in  these  things?  We  call  them  Asiatic,  we  call 
them  primeval ;  but  perhaps  that  is  only  optical,  for 
Nature  is  always  equal  to  herself,  and  there  are  as 
good  eyes  and  ears  now  in  the  planet  as  ever  were. 
Only  these  ejaculations  of  the  soul  are  uttered  one 
or  a  few  at  a  time,  at  long  intervals,  and  it  takes 
millenniums  to  make  a  Bible. 

These  are  a  few  of  the  books  which  the  old  and 
the  later  times  have  yielded  us,  which  will  reward 
the  time  spent  on  them.  In  comparing  the  num 
ber  of  good  books  with  the  shortness  of  life,  many 
might  well  be  read  by  proxy,  if  we  had  good 

VOL.   VII.  14 


210  BOOKS. 

proxies ;  and  it  would  be  well  for  sincere  young 
men  to  borrow  a  hint  from  the  French  Institute 
and  the  British  Association,  and  as  they  divide  the 
whole  body  into  sections,  each  of  which  sits  upon 
and  reports  of  certain  matters  confided  to  it,  so  let 
each  scholar  associate  himself  to  such  persons  as  he 
can  rely  on,  in  a  literary  club,  in  which  each  shall 
undertake  a  single  work  or  series  for  which  he  is 
qualified.  For  example,  how  attractive  is  the 
whole  literature  of  the  "  Roman  de  la  Rose,"  the 
"  Fabliaux,"  and  the  gale  science  of  the  French 
Troubadours !  Yet  who  in  Boston  has  time  for 
that  ?  But  one  of  our  company  shall  undertake  it, 
shall  study  and  master  it,  and  shall  report  on  it  as 
under  oath ;  shall  give  us  the  sincere  result  as  it 
lies  in  his  mind,  adding  nothing,  keeping  nothing 
back.  Another  member  meantime  shall  as  honestly 
search,  sift,  and  as  truly  report,  on  British  mythol 
ogy,  the  Round  Table,  the  histories  of  Brut,  Merlin, 
and  Welsh  poetry ;  a  third  on  the  Saxon  Chroni 
cles,  Robert  of  Gloucester,  and  "William  of  Malmes- 
bury ;  a  fourth,  on  Mysteries,  Early  Drama,  "  Gesta 
Romanorum,"  Collier,  and  Dyce,  and  the  Camden 
Society.  Each  shall  give  us  his  grains  of  gold, 
after  the  washing ;  and  every  other  shall  then  de 
cide  whether  this  is  a  book  indispensable  to  him 
also. 


CLUBS. 


CLUBS. 


WE  are  delicate  machines,  and  require  nice  treat 
ment  to  get  from  us  the  maximum  of  power  and 
pleasure.  We  need  tonics,  but  must  have  those 
that  cost  little  or  no  reaction.  The  flame  of  life 
burns  too  fast  in  pure  oxygen,  and  nature  has  tem 
pered  the  air  with  nitrogen.  So  thought  is  the  na 
tive  air  of  the  mind,  yet  pure  it  is  a  poison  to  our 
mixed  constitution,  and  soon  burns  up  the  bone- 
house  of  man,  unless  tempered  with  affection  and 
coarse  practice  in  the  material  world.  Varied  foods, 
climates,  beautiful  objects,  —  and  especially  the  al 
ternation  of  a  large  variety  of  objects,  —  are  the 
necessity  of  this  exigent  system  of  ours.  But  our 
tonics,  our  luxuries,  are  force-pumps  which  exhaust 
the  strength  they  pretend  to  supply ;  and  of  all  the 
cordials  known  to  us,  the  best,  safest,  and  most 
exhilarating,  with  the  least  harm,  is  society;  and 
every  healthy  and  efficient  mind  passes  a  large 
part  of  life  in  the  company  most  easy  to  him. 

We  seek  society  with  very  different  aims,  and 
the  staple  of  conversation  is  widely  unlike  in  its 


214  CLUBS. 

circles.  Sometimes  it  is  facts,  —  running  from  those 
of  daily  necessity,  to  the  last  results  of  science,  — 
and  has  all  degrees  of  importance  ;  sometimes  it  is 
love,  and  makes  the  balm  of  our  early  and  of  our 
latest  days  ;  sometimes  it  is  thought,  as  from  a  per 
son  who  is  a  mind  only  ;  sometimes  a  singing,  as  if 
the  heart  poured  out  all  like  a  bird  ;  sometimes 
experience.  With  some  men  it  is  a  debate ;  at 
the  approach  of  a  dispute  they  neigh  like  horses. 
Unless  there  be  an  argument,  they  think  nothing 
is  doing.  Some  talkers  excel  in  the  precision  with 
which  they  formulate  their  thoughts,  so  that  you 
get  from  them  somewhat  to  remember ;  others  lay 
criticism  asleep  by  a  charm.  Especially  women 
use  words  that  are  not  words,  —  as  steps  in  a  dance 
are  not  steps, — but  reproduce  the  genius  of  that 
they  speak  of ;  as  the  sound  of  some  bells  makes  us 
think  of  the  bell  merely,  whilst  the  church-chimes 
in  the  distance  bring  the  church  and  its  serious 
memories  before  us.  Opinions  are  accidental  in 
people,  — have  a  poverty-stricken  air.  A  man  valu 
ing  himself  as  the  organ  of  this  or  that  dogma  is  a 
dull  companion  enough ;  but  opinion  native  to  the 
speaker  is  sweet  and  refreshing,  and  inseparable 
from  his  image.  Neither  do  we  by  any  means  al 
ways  go  to  people  for  conversation.  How  often  to 
say  nothing,  —  and  yet  must  go ;  as  a  child  will 
long  for  his  companions,  but  among  them  plays  by 


CLUBS.  215 

himself.  'T  is  only  presence  which  we  want.  But 
one  thing  is  certain,  —  at  some  rate,  intercourse  we 
must  have.  The  experience  of  retired  men  is  pos 
itive,  —  that  we  lose  our  days  and  are  barren  of 
thought  for  want  of  some  person  to  talk  with.  The 
understanding  can  no  more  empty  itself  by  its  own 
action  than  can  a  deal  box. 

The  clergyman  walks  from  house  to  house  all  day 
all  the  year  to  give  people  the  comfort  of  good  talk. 
The  physician  helps  them  mainly  in  the  same  way, 
by  healthy  talk  giving  a  right  tone  to  the  patient's 
mind.  The  dinner,  the  walk,  the  fireside,  all  have 
that  for  their  main  end. 

See  how  Nature  has  secured  the  communication 
of  knowledge.  'Tis  certain  that  money  does  not 
more  burn  in  a  boy's  pocket  than  a  piece  of  news 
burns  in  our  memory  until  we  can  tell  it.  And  in 
higher  activity  of  mind,  every  new  perception  is 
attended  with  a  thrill  of  pleasure,  and  the  impart 
ing  of  it  to  others  is  also  attended  with  pleasure. 
Thought  is  the  child  of  the  intellect,  and  this  child 
is  conceived  with  joy  and  born  with  joy. 

Conversation  is  the  laboratory  and  workshop  of 
the  student.  The  affection  or  sympathy  helps. 
The  wish  to  speak  to  the  want  of  another  mind  as 
sists  to  clear  your  own.  A  certain  truth  possesses 
us  which  we  in  all  ways  strive  to  utter.  Every 
time  we  say  a  thing  in  conversation,  we  get  a  me- 


216  CLUBS. 

chanical  advantage  in  detaching  it  well  and  deliv- 
erly.  I  prize  the  mechanics  of  conversation.  'T  is 
pulley  and  lever  and  screw.  To  fairly  disengage 
the  mass,  and  send  it  jingling  down,  a  good  boul 
der,  —  a  block  of  quartz  and  gold,  to  be  worked  up 
at  leisure  in  the  useful  arts  of  life, — is  a  wonder 
ful  relief. 

What  are  the  best  days  in  memory?  Those 
in  which  we  met  a  companion  who  was  truly  such. 
How  sweet  those  hours  when  the  day  was  not  long 
enough  to  communicate  and  compare  our  intellect 
ual  jewels,  —  the  favorite  passages  of  each  book, 
the  proud  anecdotes  of  our  heroes,  the  delicious 
verses  we  had  hoarded !  "What  a  motive  had  then 
our  solitary  days !  How  the  countenance  of  our 
friend  still  left  some  light  after  he  had  gone !  We 
remember  the  time  when  the  best  gift  we  could  ask 
of  fortune  was  to  fall  in  with  a  valuable  companion 
in  a  ship's  cabin,  or  on  a  long  journey  in  the  old 
stage-coach,  where,  each  passenger  being  forced  to 
know  every  other,  and  other  employments  being 
out  of  question,  conversation  naturally  flowed,  peo 
ple  became  rapidly  acquainted,  and,  if  well  adapted, 
more  intimate  in  a  day  than  if  they  had  been 
neighbors  for  years. 

In  youth,  in  the  fury  of  curiosity  and  acquisition, 
the  day  is  too  short  for  books  and  the  crowd  of 
thoughts,  and  we  are  impatient  of  interruption. 


CLUBS.  217 

Later,  when  books  tire,  thought  has  a  more  languid 
flow ;  and  the  days  come  when  we  are  alarmed,  and 
say  there  are  no  thoughts.  '  What  a  barren- witted 
pate  is  mine ! '  the  student  says ;  '  I  will  go  and 
learn  whether  I  have  lost  my  reason.'  He  seeks 
intelligent  persons,  whether  more  wise  or  less  wise 
than  he,  who  give  him  provocation,  and  at  once  and 
easily  the  old  motion  begins  in  his  brain  :  thoughts, 
fancies,  humors  flow ;  the  cloud  lifts ;  the  horizon 
broadens;  and  the  infinite  opulence  of  things  is 
again  shown  him.  But  the  right  conditions  must 
be  observed.  Mainly  he  must  have  leave  to  be 
himself.  Saiicho  Panza  blessed  the  man  who 
invented  sleep.  So  I  prize  the  good  invention 
whereby  everybody  is  provided  with  somebody  who 
is  glad  to  see  him. 

If  men  are  less  when  together  than  they  are 
alone,  they  are  also  in  some  respects  enlarged. 
They  kindle  each  other ;  and  such  is  the  power  of 
suggestion  that  each  sprightly  story  calls  out  more  ; 
and  sometimes  a  fact  that  had  long  slept  in  the 
recesses  of  memory  hears  the  voice,  is  welcomed  to 
daylight,  and  proves  of  rare  value.  Every  meta 
physician  must  have  observed,  not  only  that  no 
thought  is  alone,  but  that  thoughts  commonly  go  in 
pairs ;  though  the  related  thoughts  first  appeared 
in  his  mind  at  long  distances  of  time.  Things  are 
in  pairs  :  a  natural  fact  has  only  half  its  value  until 


218  CLUBS. 

a  fact  in  moral  nature,  its  counterpart,  is  stated. 
Then  they  confirm  and  adorn  each  other ;  a  story 
is  matched  by  another  story.  And  that  may  be 
the  reason  why,  when  a  gentleman  has  told  a  good 
thing,  he  immediately  tells  it  again. 

Nothing  seems  so  cheap  as  the  benefit  of  conver 
sation  ;  nothing  is  more  rare.  'T  is  wonderful  how 
you  are  balked  and  baffled.  There  is  plenty  of  in 
telligence,  reading,  curiosity;  but  serious,  happy 
discourse,  avoiding  personalities,  dealing  with  re 
sults,  is  rare :  and  I  seldom  meet  with  a  reading 
and  thoughtful  person  but  he  tells  me,  as  if  it  were 
his  exceptional  mishap,  that  he  has  no  companion. 

Suppose  such  a  one  to  go  out  exploring  different 
circles  in  search  of  this  wise  and  genial  counter 
part,  —  he  might  inquire  far  and  wide.  Conversa 
tion  in  society  is  found  to  be  011  a  platform  so  low 
as  to  exclude  science,  the  saint,  and  the  poet. 
Amidst  all  the  gay  banter,  sentiment  cannot  pro 
fane  itself  and  venture  out.  The  reply  of  old  Isoc- 
rates  comes  so  often  to  mind,  — "The  things  which 
are  now  seasonable  I  cannot  say ;  and  for  the  things 
which  I  can  say  it  is  not  now  the  time."  Besides, 
who  can  resist  the  charm  of  talent  ?  The  lover  of 
letters  loves  power  too.  Among  the  men  of  wit 
and  learning,  he  could  not  withhold  his  homage 
from  the  gayety,  grasp  of  memory,  luck,  splendor, 
and  speed ;  such  exploits  of  discourse,  such  feats  of 


CLUBS.  219 

society !  What  new  powers,  what  mines  of  wealth  ! 
But  when  he  came  home,  his  brave  sequins  were 
dry  leaves.  He  found  either  that  the  fact  they 
had  thus  dizened  and  adorned  was  of  110  value,  or 
that  he  already  knew  all  and  more  than  all  they  had 
told  him.  He  could  not  find  that  he  was  helped  by 
so  much  as  one  thought  or  principle,  one  solid  fact, 
one  commanding  impulse :  great  was  the  dazzle, 
but  the  gain  was  small.  He  uses  his  occasions ; 
he  seeks  the  company  of  those  who  have  convivial 
talent.  But  the  moment  they  meet,  to  be  sure 
they  begin  to  be  something  else  than  they  were ; 
they  play  pranks,  dance  jigs,  run  on  each  other, 
pun,  tell  stories,  try  many  fantastic  tricks,  under 
some  superstition  that  there  must  be  excitement 
and  elevation ;  —  and  they  kill  conversation  at 
once.  I  know  well  the  rusticity  of  the  shy  hermit. 
No  doubt  he  does  not  make  allowance  enough  for 
men  of  more  active  blood  and  habit.  But  it  is 
only  on  natural  ground  that  conversation  can  be 
rich.  It  must  not  begin  with  uproar  and  violence. 
Let  it  keep  the  ground,  let  it  feel  the  connection 
with  the  battery.  Men  must  not  be  off  their 
centres. 

Some  men  love  only  to  talk  where  they  are  mas 
ters.  They  like  to  go  to  school-girls,  or  to  boys,  or 
into  the  shops  where  the  sauntering  people  gladly 
lend  an  ear  to  any  one.  On  these  terms  they  give 


220  CLUBS. 

information  and  please  themselves  by  sallies  and 
chat  which  are  admired  by  the  idlers ;  and  the 
talker  is  at  his  ease  and  jolly,  for  he  can  walk  out 
without  ceremony  when  he  pleases.  They  go  rarely 
to  their  equals,  and  then  as  for  their  own  con 
venience  simply,  making  too  much  haste  to  intro 
duce  and  impart  their  new  whim  or  discovery ; 
listen  badly  or  do  not  listen  to  the  comment  or  to 
the  thought  by  which  the  company  strive  to  repay 
them ;  rather,  as  soon  as  their  own  speech  is  done, 
they  take  their  hats.  Then  there  are  the  gladia 
tors,  to  whom  it  is  always  a  battle ;  't  is  no  matter 
on  which  side,  they  fight  for  victory ;  then  the 
heady  men,  the  egotists,  the  monotones,  the  steriles, 
and  the  impracticables. 

It  does  not  help  that  you  find  as  good  or  a  better 
man  than  yourself,  if  he  is  not  timed  and  fitted  to 
you.  The  greatest  sufferers  are  often  those  who 
have  the  most  to  say,  —  men  of  a  delicate  sympa 
thy,  who  are  dumb  in  mixed  company.  Able  peo 
ple,  if  they  do  not  know  how  to  make  allowance  for 
them,  paralyze  them.  One  of  those  conceited  prigs 
who  value  nature  only  as  it  feeds  and  exhibits  them 
is  equally  a  pest  with  the  roysterers.  There  must 
be  large  reception  as  well  as  giving.  How  delight 
ful  after  these  disturbers  is  the  radiant,  playful  wit 
of  —  one  whom  I  need  not  name,  —  for  in  every 
society  there  is  his  representative.  Good-nature  is 


CLUBS  221 

stronger  than  tomahawks.  His  conversation  is  all 
pictures :  he  can  reproduce  whatever  he  has  seen ; 
he  tells  the  best  story  in  the  county,  and  is  of  such 
genial  temper  that  he  disposes  all  others  irresistibly 
to  good-humor  and  discourse.  Diderot  said  of  the 
Abbe  Galiani :  "  He  was  a  treasure  in  rainy  days  ; 
and  if  the  cabinet-makers  made  such  things,  every 
body  would  have  one  in  the  country." 

One  lesson  we  learn  early,  —  that  in  spite  of 
seeming  difference,  men  are  all  of  one  pattern. 
We  readily  assume  this  with  our  mates,  and  are 
disappointed  and  angry  if  we  find  that  we  are  pre 
mature,  and  that  their  watches  are  slower  than 
ours.  In  fact  the  only  sin  which  we  never  forgive 
in  each  other  is  difference  of  opinion.  We  know 
beforehand  that  yonder  man  must  think  as  we  do. 
Has  he  not  two  hands,  —  two  feet,  —  hair  and  nails? 
Does  he  not  eat,  —  bleed,  —  laugh,  —  cry  ?  His 
dissent  from  me  is  the  veriest  affectation.  This 
conclusion  is  at  once  the  logic  of  persecution  and 
of  love.  And  the' ground  of  our  indignation  is  our 
conviction  that  his  dissent  is  some  wilfulness  he 
practises  on  himself.  He  checks  the  flow  of  his 
opinion,  as  the  cross  cow  holds  up  her  milk.  Yes, 
and  we  look  into  his  eye,  and  see  that  he  knows  it 
and  hides  his  eye  from  ours. 

But  to  come  a  little  nearer  to  my  mark,  I  am  to 
say  that  there  may  easily  be  obstacles  in  the  way 


222  CLUBS. 

of  finding  the  pure  article  we  are  in  search  of,  but 
when  we  find  it  it  is  worth  the  pursuit,  for  beside 
its  comfort  as  medicine  and  cordial,  once  in  the 
right  company,  new  and  vast  values  do  not  fail  to 
appear.  All  that  man  can  do  for  man  is  to  be 
found  in  that  market.  There  are  great  prizes  in 
this  game.  Our  fortunes  in  the  world  are  as  our 
mental  equipment  for  this  competition  is.  Yonder 
is  a  man  who  can  answer  the  questions  which  I 
cannot.  Is  it  so  ?  Hence  conies  to  me  boundless 
curiosity  to  know  his  experiences  and  his  wit. 
Hence  competition  for  the  stakes  dearest  to  man. 
What  is  a  match  at  whist,  or  draughts,  or  billiards, 
or  chess,  to  a  match  of  mother-wit,  of  knowledge, 
and  of  resources  ?  However  courteously  we  con 
ceal  it,  it  is  social  rank  and  spiritual  power  that 
are  compared ;  whether  in  the  parlor,  the  courts, 
the  caucus,  the  senate,  or  the  chamber  of  science, 
—  which  are  only  less  or  larger  theatres  for  this 
competition. 

He  that  can  define,  he  that  can  answer  a  ques 
tion  so  as  to  admit  of  no  further  answer,  is  the 
best  man.  -  This  was  the  meaning  of  the  story  of 
the  Sphinx.  In  the  old  time  conundrums  were  sent 
from  king  to  king  by  ambassadors.  The  seven  wise 
masters  at  Periander's  banquet  spent  their  time  in 
answering  them.  The  life  of  Socrates  is  a  pro 
pounding  and  a  solution  of  these.  So,  in  the  hagi- 


CLUBS.  223 

ology  of  each  nation,  the  lawgiver  was  in  each  case 
some  man  of  eloquent  tongue,  whose  sympathy 
brought  him  face  to  face  with  the  extremes  of  soci 
ety.  Jesus,  Menu,  the  first  Buddhist,  Mahomet, 
Zertusht,  Pythagoras,  are  examples. 

Jesus  spent  his  life  in  discoursing  with  humble 
people  on  life  and  duty,  in  giving  wise  answers, 
showing  that  he  saw  at  a  larger  angle  of  vision, 
and  at  least  silencing  those  who  were  not  generous 
enough  to  accept  his  thoughts.  Luther  spent  his 
life  so ;  and  it  is  not  his  theologic  works,  —  his 
"  Commentary  on  the  Galatians,"  and  the  rest,  but 
his  "  Table-Talk,"  which  is  still  read  by  men.  Dr. 
Johnson  was  a  man  of  no  profound  mind,  —  full 
of  English  limitations,  English  politics,  English 
Church,  Oxford  philosophy ;  yet,  having  a  large 
heart,  mother-wit,  and  good  sense  which  impatiently 
overleaped  his  customary  bounds,  his  conversation 
as  reported  by  Bos  well  has  a  lasting  charm.  Con 
versation  is  the  vent  of  character  as  well  as  of 
thought ;  and  Dr.  Johnson  impresses  his  company, 
not  only  by  the  point  of  the  remark,  but  also,  when 
the  point  fails,  because  lie  makes  it.  His  obvious 
religion  or  superstition,  his  deep  wish  that  they 
should  think  so  or  so,  weighs  with  them,  —  so  rare 
is  depth  of  feeling,  or  a  constitutional  value  for  a 
thought  or  opinion,  among  the  light-minded  men 
and  women  who  make  up  society ;  and  though  they 


224"  CLUBS. 

know  that  there  is  in  the  speaker  a  degree  of  short 
coming,  of  insincerity,  and  of  talking  for  victory, 
yet  the  existence  of  character,  and  habitual  rever 
ence  for  principles  over  talent  or  learning,  is  felt 
by  the  frivolous. 

One  of  the  best  records  of  the  great  German 
master  who  towered  over  all  his  contemporaries  in 
the  first  thirty  years  of  this  century,  is  his  con 
versations  as  recorded  by  Eckermann  ;  and  the 
"  Table-Talk  "  of  Coleridge  is  one  of  the  best  re 
mains  of  his  genius. 

In  the  Norse  legends,  the  gods  of  Valhalla,  when 
they  meet  the  Jotuns,  converse  on  the  perilous 
terms  that  he  who  cannot  answer  the  other's  ques 
tions  forfeits  his  own  life.  Odin  comes  to  the 
threshold  of  the  Jotun  "Waftrhudnir  in  disguise, 
calling  himself  Gangrader ;  is  invited  into  the  hall, 
and  told  that  he  cannot  go  out  thence  unless  he 
can  answer  every  question  "Wafthrudnir  shall  put. 
Wafthrudnir  asks  him  the  name  of  the  god  of  the 
sun,  and  'of  the  god  who  brings  the  night ;  what 
river  separates  the  dwellings  of  the  sons  of  the 
giants  from  those  of  the  gods ;  what  plain  lies  be 
tween  the  gods  and  Surtur,  their  adversary,  etc. ; 
all  which  the  disguised  Odin  answers  satisfactorily. 
Then  it  is  his  turn  to  interrogate,  and  he  is  an 
swered  well  for  a  time  by  the  Jotun.  At  last  he 
puts  a  question  which  none  but  himself  could  an- 


CLUBS. 

swer :  "  What  did  Odin  whisper  in  the  ear 
son  Balder,  when  Balder  mounted  the  funeral 
pile  ?  "  The  startled  giant  replies  :  "  None  of  the 
gods  knows  what  in  the  old  time  THOU  saidst  in 
the  ear  of  thy  son :  with  death  on  my  mouth  have 
I  spoken  the  fate-words  of  the  generation  of  the 
^Esir  ;  with  Odin  contended  I  in  wise  words.  Thou 
must  ever  the  wisest  be." 

And  still  the  gods  and  giants  are  so  known,  and 
still  they  play  the  same  game  in  all  the  million 
mansions  of  heaven  and  of  earth;  at  all  tables, 
clubs,  and  tete-d-tetes,  the  lawyers  in  the  court 
house,  the  senators  in  the  capitol,  the  doctors  in  the 
academy,  the  wits  in  the  hotel.  Best  is  he  who 
gives  an  answer  that  cannot  be  answered  again. 
Omnis  definitio  periculosa  est,  and  only  wit  has 
the  secret.  The  same  thing  took  place  when  Leib 
nitz  came  to  visit  Newton ;  when  Schiller  came  to 
Goethe ;  when  France,  in  the  person  of  Madame 
de  Stael  visited  Goethe  and  Schiller ;  when  Hegel 
was  the  guest  of  Victor  Cousin  in  Paris;  when 
Linnaeus  was  the  guest  of  Jussieu.  It  happened 
many  years  ago  that  an  American  chemist  carried 
a  letter  of  introduction  to  Dr.  Dalton  of  Manches 
ter,  England,  the  author  of  the  theory  of  atomic 
proportions,  and  was  coolly  enough  received  by  the 
Doctor  in  the  laboratory  where  he  was  engaged. 
Only  Dr.  Dalton  scratched  a  formula  on  a  scrap 

VOL.  VII.  15 


226  CLUBS. 

of  paper  and  pushed  it  towards  the  guest,  —  "  Had 
lie  seen  that  ?  "  The  visitor  scratched  on  another 
paper  a  formula  describing  some  results  of  his  own 
with  sulphuric  acid,  and  pushed  it  across  the  table, 
—  "  Had  he  seen  that  ?  "  The  attention  of  the 
English  chemist  was  instantly  arrested,  and  they 
became  rapidly  acquainted. 

To  answer  a  question  so  as  to  admit  of  no  reply, 
is  the  test  of  a  man,  —  to  touch  bottom  every  time. 
Hyde,  Earl  of  Rochester,  asked  Lord-Keeper  Guil- 
ford,  "  Do  you  not  think  I  could  understand  any 
business  in  England  in  a  month?"  "Yes,  my 
lord,"  replied  the  other,  "  but  I  think  you  would 
understand  it  better  in  two  months."  When  Ed 
ward  I.  claimed  to  be  acknowledged  by  the  Scotch 
(1292)  as  lord  paramount,  the  nobles  of  Scotland 
replied,  "  No  answer  can  be  made  while  the  throne 
is  vacant."  When  Henry  III.  (1217)  plead  du 
ress  against  his  people  demanding  confirmation  and 
execution  of  the  Charter,  the  reply  was :  "  If  this 
were  admitted,  civil  wars  could  never  close  but  by 
the  extirpation  of  one  of  the  contending  parties." 

What  can  you  do  with  one  of  these  sharp  respon 
dents  ?  What  can  you  do  with  an  eloquent  man  ? 
No  rules  of  debate,  no  contempt  of  court,  no  exclu 
sions,  no  gag-laws  can  be  contrived  that  his  first 
syllable  will  not  set  aside  or  overstep  and  annul. 
You  can  shut  out  the  light,  it  may  be,  but  can  you 


CLUBS.  227 

shut  out  gravitation  ?  You  may  condemn  his  book, 
but  can  you  fight  against  his  thought  ?  That  is 
always  too  nimble  for  you,  anticipates  you,  and 
breaks  out  victorious  in  some  other  quarter.  Can 
you  stop  the  motions  of  good  sense  ?  What  can 
you  do  with  Beaumarchais,  who  converts  the  censor 
whom  the  court  has  appointed  to  stifle  his  play  into 
an  ardent  advocate?  The  court  appoints  another 
censor,  who  shall  crush  it  this  time.  Beaumarchais 
persuades  him  to  defend  it.  The  court  successively 
appoints  three  more  severe  inquisitors  ;  Beaumar 
chais  converts  them  all  into  triumphant  vindicators 
of  the  play  which  is  to  bring  in  the  Kevolution. 
Who  can  stop  the  mouth  of  Luther,  —  of  Newton  ? 
—  of  Franklin,  —  of  Mirabeau,  —  of  Talleyrand  ? 

These  masters  can  make  good  their  own  place, 
and  need  no  patron.  Every  variety  of  gift  —  sci 
ence,  religion,  politics,  letters,  art,  prudence,  war, 
or  love  —  has  its  vent  and  exchange  in  conversa 
tion.  Conversation  is  the  Olympic  games  whither 
every  superior  gift  resorts  to  assert  and  approve 
itself,  —  and,  of  course,  the  inspirations  of  power 
ful  and  public  men,  with  the  rest.  But  it  is  not 
this  class,  whom  the  splendor  of  their  accomplish 
ment  almost  inevitably  guides  into  the  vortex  of 
ambition,  makes  them  chancellors  and  commanders 
of  council  and  of  action,  and  makes  them  at  last 
fatalists,  —  not  these  whom  we  now  consider.  We 


228  CLUBS. 

consider  those  who  are  interested  in  thoughts,  their 
own  and  other  men's,  and  who  delight  in  comparing 
them ;  who  think  it  the  highest  compliment  they 
can  pay  a  man  to  deal  with  him  as  an  intellect,  to 
expose  to  him  the  grand  and  cheerful  secrets  per 
haps  never  opened  to  their  daily  companions,  to 
share  with  him  the  sphere  of  freedom  and  the  sim 
plicity  of  truth. 

But  the  best  conversation  is  rare.  Society  seems 
to  have  agreed  to  treat  fictions  as  realities,  and 
realities  as  fictions ;  and  the  simple  lover  of  truth, 
especially  if  on  very  high  grounds,  as  a  religious 
or  intellectual  seeker,  finds  himself  a  stranger  and 
alien. 

It  is  possible  that  the  best  conversation  is  be 
tween  two  persons  who  can  talk  only  to  each  other. 
Even  Montesquieu  confessed  that  in  conversation, 
if  he  perceived  he  was  listened  to  by  a  third 
person,  it  seemed  to  him  from  that  moment  the 
whole  question  vanished  from  his  mind.  I  have 
known  persons  of  rare  ability  who  were  heavy  com 
pany  to  good  social  men  who  knew  well  enough 
how  to  draw  out  others  of  retirinff  habit :  and, 

o  y 

moreover,  were  heavy  to  intellectual  men  who  ought 
to  have  known  them.  And  does  it  never  occur 
that  we  perhaps  live  with  people  too  superior  to  be 
seen,  —  as  there  are  musical  notes  too  high  for  the 
scale  of  most  ears  ?  There  are  men  who  are  great 


CLUBS.  229 

only  to  one  or  two  companions  of  more  opportunity, 
or  more  adapted. 

It  was  to  meet  these  wants  that  in  all  civil  na 
tions  attempts  have  been  made  to  organize  conver 
sation  by  bringing  together  cultivated  people  under 
the  most  favorable  conditions.  'Tis  certain  there 
was  liberal  and  refined  conversation  in  the  Greek, 
in  the  Roman,  and  in  the  Middle  Age.  There  was 
a  time  when  in  France  a  revolution  occurred  in 
domestic  architecture ;  when  the  houses  of  the  no 
bility,  which,  up  to  that  time,  had  been  constructed 
on  feudal  necessities,  in  a  hollow  square,  —  the 
ground-floor  being  resigned  to  offices  and  stables, 
and  the  floors  above  to  rooms  of  state  and  to  lodg 
ing-rooms,  —  were  rebuilt  with  new  purpose.  It  was 
the  Marchioness  of  Eambouillet  who  first  got  the 
horses  out  of  and  the  scholars  into  the  palaces, 
having  constructed  her  hdtel  with  a  view  to  society, 
with  superb  suites  of  drawing-rooms  on  the  same 
floor,  and  broke  through  the  morgue  of  etiquette 
by  inviting  to  her  house  men  of  wit  and  learning 
as  well  as  men  of  rank,  and  piqued  the  emulation 
of  Cardinal  Richelieu  to  rival  assemblies,  and  so 
to  the  founding  of  the  French  Academy.  The  his 
tory  of  the  H6tel  Rambouillet  and  its  brilliant  cir 
cles  makes  an  important  date  in  French  civiliza 
tion.  And  a  history  of  clubs  from  early  antiquity, 
tracing  the  efforts  to  secure  liberal  and  refined  con- 


230  CLUBS. 

versation,  through  the   Greek  and  Eoman  to  the 

O 

Middle  Age,  and  thence  down  through  French, 
English,  and  German  memoirs,  tracing  the  clubs 
and  coteries  in  each  country,  would  be  an  impor 
tant  chapter  in  history.  We  know  well  the  Mer 
maid  Club,  in  London,  of  Shakspeare,  Ben  Jon- 
son,  Chapman,  Herrick,  Selden,  Beaumont  and 
Fletcher ;  its  "  Rules "  are  preserved,  and  many 
allusions  to  their  suppers  are  found  in  Jonson, 
Herrick,  and  in  Aubrey.  Anthony  Wood  has 
many  details  of  Harrington's  Club.  Dr.  Bentley's 
Club  held  Newton,  Wren,  Evelyn,  and  Locke ;  and 
we  owe  to  Boswell  our  knowledge  of  the  club  of 
Dr.  Johnson,  Goldsmith,  Burke,  Gibbon,  Reynolds, 
Garrick,  Beauclerk  and  Percy.  And  we  have  rec 
ords  of  the  brilliant  society  that  Edinburgh  boasted 
in  the  first  decade  of  this  century.  Such  societies 
are  possible  only  in  great  cities,  and  are  the  com 
pensation  which  these  can  make  to  their  dwellers 
for  depriving  them  of  the  free  intercourse  with 
Nature.  Every  scholar  is  surrounded  by  wiser 
men  than  he  —  if  they  cannot  write  as  well.  Can 
not  they  meet  and  exchange  results  to  their  mutual 
benefit  and  delight  ?  It  was  a  pathetic  experience 
when  a  genial  and  accomplished  person  said  to  me, 
looking  from  his  country  home  to  the  capital  of 
New  England,  "  There  is  a  town  of  two  hundred 
thousand  people,  and  not  a  chair  in  it  for  me."  If 


CLUBS.  231 

he  were  sure  to  find  at  No.  2000  Tremont  Street 
what  scholars  were  abroad  after  the  morning  stud 
ies  were  ended,  Boston  would  shine  as  the  New 
Jerusalem  to  his  eyes. 

Now  this  want  of  adapted  society  is  mutual. 
The  man  of  thought,  the  man  of  letters,  the  man 
of  science,  the  administrator  skilful  in  affairs,  the 
man  of  manners  and  culture,  whom  you  so  much 
wish  to  find,  —  each  of  these  is  wishing  to  be  found. 
Each  wishes  to  open  his  thought,  his  knowledge, 
his  social  skill  to  the  daylight  in  your  company  and 
affection,  and  to  exchange  his  gifts  for  yours ;  and 
the  first  hint  of  a  select  and  intelligent  company  is 
welcome. 

But  the  club  must  be  self-protecting,  and  ob 
stacles  arise  at  the  outset.  There  are  people  who 
cannot  well  be  cultivated ;  whom  you  must  keep 
down  and  quiet  if  you  can.  There  are  those  who 
have  the  instinct  of  a  bat  to  fly  against  any  lighted 
candle  and  put  it  out,  —  marplots  and  contradictors. 
There  are  those  who  go  only  to  talk,  and  those  who 
go  only  to  hear  :  both  are  bad.  A  right  rule  for 
a  club  would  be,  —  Admit  no  man  whose  presence 
excludes  any  one  topic.  It  requires  people  who  are 
not  surprised  and  shocked,  who  do  and  let  do  and 
let  be,  who  sink  trifles  and  know  solid  values,  and 
who  take  a  great  deal  for  granted. 

It  is  always  a  practical  difficulty  with  clubs  to 


232  CLUBS. 

regulate  the  laws  of  election  so  as  to  exclude  per 
emptorily  every  social  nuisance.  Nobody  wishes 
bad  manners.  We  must  have  loyalty  and  character. 
The  poet  Marvell  was  wont  to  say  that  he  "  would 
not  drink  wine  with  any  one  with  whom  he  could 
not  trust  his  life."  But  neither  can  we  afford  to  be 
superfine.  A  man  of  irreproachable  behavior  and 
excellent  sense  preferred  on  his  travels  taking  his 
chance  at  a  hotel  for  company,  to  the  charging 
himself  with  too  many  select  letters  of  introduction. 
He  confessed  he  liked  low  company.  He  said  the 
fact  was  incontestable  that  the  society  of  gypsies 
was  more  attractive  than  that  of  bishops.  The  girl 
deserts  the  parlor  for  the  kitchen  ;  the  boy,  for  the 
wharf.  Tutors  and  parents  cannot  interest  him  like 
the  uproarious  conversation  he  finds  in  the  market 
or  the  dock.  I  knew  a  scholar,  of  some  experience 
in  camps,  who  said  that  he  liked,  in  a  bar-room,  to 
tell  a  few  coon  stories  and  put  himself  on  a  good 
footing  with  the  company ;  then  he  could  be  as 
silent  as  he  chose.  A  scholar  does  not  wish  to  be 
always  pumping  his  brains  ;  he  wants  gossips.  The 
black-coats  are  good  company  only  for  black -coats  ; 
but  when  the  manufacturers,  merchants,  and  ship 
masters  meet,  see  how  much  they  have  to  say,  and 
how  long  the  conversation  lasts  !  They  have  come 
from  many  zones ;  they  have  traversed  wide  coun 
tries  ;  they  know  each  his  own  arts,  and  the  cunning 


CLUBS.  233 

artisans  of  his  craft ;  they  have  seen  the  best  and 
the  worst  of  men.  Their  knowledge  contradicts 
the  popular  opinion  and  your  own  on  many  points. 
Tilings  which  you  fancy  wrong  they  know  to  be 
right  and  profitable ;  things  which  you  reckon 
superstitious  they  know  to  be  true.  They  have 
found  virtue  in  the  strangest  homes ;  and  in  the 
rich  store  of  their  adventures  are  instances  and 
examples  which  you  have  been  seeking  in  vain  for 
years,  and  which  they  suddenly  and  unwittingly 
offer  you. 

I  remember  a  social  experiment  in  this  direc 
tion,  wherein  it  appeared  that  each  of  the  members 
fancied  he  was  in  need  of  society,  but  himself  un 
presentable.  On  trial  they  all  found  that  they 
could  be  tolerated  by,  and  could  tolerate,  each 
other.  Nay,  the  tendency  to  extreme  self-respect 
which  hesitated  to  join  in  a  club  was  running  rap 
idly  down  to  abject  admiration  of  each  other,  when 
the  club  was  broken  up  by  new  combinations. 

The  use  of  the  hospitality  of  the  club  hardly 
needs  explanation.  Men  are  unbent  and  social  at 
table  ;  and  I  remember  it  was  explained  to  me,  in 
a  Southern  city,  that  it  was  impossible  to  set  any 
public  charity  011  foot  uuless  through  a  tavern  din 
ner.  I  do  not  think  our  metropolitan  charities 
would  plead  the  same  necessity  ;  but  to  a  club  met 
for  conversation  a  supper  is  a  good  basis,  as  it  dis- 


234  CLUBS. 

arms  all  parties  and  puts  pedantry  and  business  to 
the  door.  All  are  in  good  humor  and  at  leisure, 
which  are  the  first  conditions  of  discourse  ;  the  or 
dinary  reserves  are  thrown  off,  experienced  men 
meet  with  the  freedom  of  boys,  and,  sooner  or  later, 
impart  all  that  is  singular  in  their  experience. 

The  hospitalities  of  clubs  are  easily  exaggerated. 
No  doubt  the  suppers  of  wits  and  philosophers  ac 
quire  much  lustre  by  time  and  renown.  Plutarch, 
Xenophon,  and  Plato,  who  have  celebrated  each  a 
banquet  of  their  set,  have  given  us  next  to  no  data 
of  the  viands ;  and  it  is  to  be  believed  that  an  in 
different  tavern  dinner  in  such  society  was  more 
relished  by  the  convives  than  a  much  better  one  in 
worse  company.  Herrick's  verses  to  Ben  Jonson 
no  doubt  paint  the  fact :  — 

<f  When  we  such  clusters  had 
As  made  us  nobly  wild,  not  mad; 
And  yet,  each  verse  of  thine 
Outdid  the  meat,  outdid  the  frolic  wine." 

Such  friends  make  the  feast  satisfying ;  and  I  notice 
that  it  was  when  things  went  prosperously,  and  the 
company  was  full  of  honor,  at  the  banquet  of  the 
Cid,  that  "  the  guests  all  were  joyful,  and  agreed 
in  one  thing,  —  that  they  had  not  eaten  better  for 
three  years." 

I  need  only  hint  the  value  of  the  club  for  bring 
ing  masters  in  their  several  arts  to  compare  and  ex- 


CLUBS.  235 

pand  their  views,  to  come  to  a-n  understanding  on 
these  points,  and  so  that  their  united  opinion  shall 
have  its  just  influence  on  public  questions  of  edu 
cation  and  politics.  It  is  agreed  that  in  the  sec 
tions  of  the  British  Association  more  information  is 
mutually  and  effectually  communicated,  in  a  few 
hours,  than  in  many  months  of  ordinary  corre 
spondence  and  the  printing  and  transmission  of 
ponderous  reports.  We  know  that  VJiomme  de 
lettres  is  a  little  wary,  and  not  fond  of  giving  away 
his  seed-corn ;  but  there  is  an  infallible  way  to 
draw  him  out,  namely,  by  having  as  good  as  he.  If 
you  have  Tuscaroora  and  he  Canada,  he  may  ex 
change  kernel  for  kernel.  If  his  discretion  is  in 
curable,  and  he  dare  not  speak  of  fairy  gold,  he 
will  yet  tell  what  new  books  he  has  found,  what  old 
ones  recovered,  what  men  write  and  read  abroad. 
A  principal  purpose  also  is  the  hospitality  of  the 
club,  as  a  means  of  receiving  a  worthy  foreigner 
with  mutual  advantage. 

Every  man  brings  into  society  some  partial 
thought  and  local  culture.  We  need  range  and 
alternation  of  topics  and  variety  of  minds.  One 
likes  in  a  companion  a  phlegm  which  it  is  a  tri 
umph  to  disturb,  and,  not  less,  to  make  in  an  old 
acquaintance  unexpected  discoveries  of  scope  and 
power  through  the  advantage  of  an  inspiring  sub 
ject.  Wisdom  is  like  electricity.  There  is  no  per- 


236  CLUBS. 

manently  wise  man,  but  men  capable  of  wisdom, 
who,  being  put  into  certain  company,  or  other 
favorable  conditions,  become  wise  for  a  short  time, 
as  glasses  rubbed  acquire  electric  power  for  a  while. 
But  while  we  look  complacently  at  these  obvious 
pleasures  and  values  of  good  companions,  I  do  not 
forget  that  Nature  is  always  very  much  in  earnest, 
and  that  her  great  gifts  have  something  serious  and 
stern.  When  we  look  for  the  highest  benefits  of 
conversation,  the  Spartan  rule  of  one  to  one  is 
usually  enforced.  Discourse,  when  it  rises  highest 
and  searches  deepest,  when  it  lifts  us  into  that 
mood  out  of  which  thoughts  come  that  remain  as 
stars  in  our  firmament,  is  between  two. 


COURAGE. 


COUEAGE. 


I  OBSERVE  that  there  are  three  qualities  which 
conspicuously  attract  the  wonder  and  reverence  of 
mankind  :  — 

1.  Disinterestedness,  as  shown  in  indifference  to 
the  ordinary  bribes  and  influences  of  conduct,  —  a 
purpose  so  sincere  and  generous  that  it  cannot  be 
tempted  aside  by  any  prospects  of  wealth  or  other 
private  advantage.  Self-love  is,  in  almost  all  men, 
such  an  over-weight,  that  they  are  incredulous  of  a 
man's  habitual  preference  of  the  general  good  to 
his  own ;  but  when  they  see  it  proved  by  sacrifices 
of  ease,  wealth,  rank,  and  of  life  itself,  there  is 
no  limit  to  their  admiration.  This  has  made  the 
power  of  the  saints  of  the  East  and  West,  who 
have  led  the  religion  of  great  nations.  Self-sacrifice 
is  the  real  miracle  out  of  which  all  the  reported 
miracles  grew.  This  makes  the  renown  of  the  he 
roes  of  Greece  and  Rome,  —  of  Socrates,  Aristides, 
and  Phocion ;  of  Quintus  Curtius,  Cato,  and  Reg- 
ulus  ;  of  Hatem  Tai's  hospitality ;  of  Chatham, 
whose  scornful  magnanimity  gave  him  immense 


240  COURAGE. 

popularity ;   of  Washington,  giving  his  service  to 
the  public  without  salary  or  reward. 

2.  Practical  power.  Men  admire  the  man  who 
can  organize  their  wishes  and  thoughts  in  stone  and 
wood  and  steel  and  brass,  —  the  man  who  can  build 
the  boat,  who  has  the  impiety  to  make  the  rivers 
run  the  way  he  wants  them ;  who  can  lead  his  tele 
graph  through  the  ocean  from  shore  to  shore ;  who, 
sitting  in  his  closet,  can  lay  out  the  plans  of  a  cam 
paign,  sea-war  and  land-war,  such  that  the  best 
generals  and  admirals,  when  all  is  done,  see  that 
they  must  thank  him  for  success ;  the  power  of  bet 
ter  combination  and  foresight,  however  exhibited, 
whether  it  only  plays  a  game  of  chess,  or  whether, 
more  loftily,  a  cunning  mathematician,  penetrating 
the  cubic  weights  of  stars,  predicts  the  planet  which 
eyes  had  never  seen;  or  whether,  exploring  the 
chemical  elements  whereof  we  and  the  world  are 
made,  and  seeing  their  secret,  Franklin  draws  off 
the  lightning  in  his  hand ;  suggesting  that  one  day 
a  wiser  geology  shall  make  the  earthquake  harm 
less  and  the  volcano  an  agricultural  resource.  Or 
here  is  one  who,  seeing  the  wishes  of  men,  knows 
how  to  come  at  their  end ;  whispers  to  this  friend, 
argues  down  that  adversary,  moulds  society  to  his 
purpose,  and  looks  at  all  men  as  wax  for  his  hands ; 
takes  command  of  them  as  the  wind  does  of  clouds, 
as  the  mother  does  of  the  child,  or  the  man  that 


COURAGE.  241 

knows  more  does  of  the  man  that  knows  less,  and 
leads  them  in  glad  surprise  to  the  very  point  where 
they  would  be  :  this  man  is  followed  with  acclama 
tion. 

3.  The  third  excellence  is  courage,  the  perfect 
will,  which  no  terrors  can  shake,  which  is  attracted 
by  frowns  or  threats  or  hostile  armies,  nay,  needs 
these  to  awake  and  fan  its  reserved  energies  into  a 
pure  flame,  and  is  never  quite  itself  until  the  haz 
ard  is  extreme  ;  then  it  is  serene  and  fertile,  and 
all  its  powers  play  well.  There  is  a  Hercules,  an 
Achilles,,  a  Rustem,  an  Arthur  or  a  Cid  in  the 
mythology  of  every  nation ;  and  in  authentic  his 
tory,  a  Leonidas,  a  Scipio,  a  Caesar,  a  Richard 
Coeur  de  Lion,  a  Cromwell,  a  Nelson,  a  Great 
Conde',  a  Bertrand  du  Guesclin,  a  Doge  Dandolo,  a 
Napoleon,  a  Massena,  and  Ney.  "T  is  said  courage 
is  common,  but  the  immense  esteem  in  which  it  is 
held  proves  it  to  be  rare.  Animal  resistance,  the 
instinct  of  the  male  animal  when  cornered,  is  no 
doubt  common  ;  but  the  pure  article,  courage  with 
eyes,  courage  with  conduct,  self-possession  at  the 
cannon's  mouth,  cheerfulness  in  lonely  adherence 
to  the  right,  is  the  endowment  of  elevated  charac 
ters.  I  need  not  show  how  much  it  is  esteemed, 
for  the  people  give  it  the  first  rank.  They  forgive 
everything  to  it.  What  an  ado  we  make  through 
two  thousand  years  about  Thermopyla)  and  Sala- 

VOL.  VII.  16 


242  COURAGE. 

mis !  What  a  memory  of  Poitiers  and  Crecy,  and 
Bunker  Hill,  and  Washington's  endurance  !  And 
any  man  who  pnts  his  life  in  peril  in  a  cause  which 
is  esteemed  becomes  the  darling  o£  all  men.  The 
very  nursery-books,  the  ballads  which  delight  boys, 
the  romances  which  delight  men,  the  favorite  top 
ics  of  eloquence,  the  thunderous  emphasis  which 
orators  give  to  every  martial  defiance  and  passage 
of  arms,  and  which  the  people  greet,  may  testify. 
How  short  a  time  since  this  whole  nation  rose  every 
morning  to  read  or  to  hear  the  traits  of  courage  of 
its  sons  and  brothers  in  the  field,  and  was  never 
weary  of  the  theme !  We  have  had  examples  of 
men  who,  for  showing  effective  courage  on  a  single 
occasion,  have  become  a  favorite  spectacle  to  na 
tions,  and  must  be  brought  in  chariots  to  every 
mass  meeting. 

Men  are  so  charmed  with  valor  that  they  have 
pleased  themselves  with  being  called  lions,  leop 
ards,  eagles,  and  dragons,  from  the  animals  contem 
porary  with  us  in  the  geologic  formations.  But 
the  animals  have  great  advantage  of  us  in  precoc 
ity.  Touch  the  snapping-turtle  with  a  stick,  and 
he  seizes  it  with  his  teeth.  Cut  off  his  head,  and 
the  teeth  will  not  let  go  the  stick.  Break  tho  egg 
of  the  young,  and  the  little  embryo,  before  yet  the 
eyes  are  open,  bites  fiercely ;  these  vivacious  crea 
tures  contriving,  —  shall  we  say  ?  —  not  only  to 


COURAGE.  243 

bite  after  they  are  dead,  but  also  to  bite  before 
they  are  born. 

But  man  begins  'life  helpless.  The  babe  is  in 
paroxysms  of  fear  the  moment  its  nurse  leaves  it 
alone,  and  it  comes  so  slowly  to  any  power  of  self- 
protection  that  mothers  say  the  salvation  of  the  life 
and  health  of  a  young-  child  is  a  perpetual  miracle. 
The  terrors  of  the  child  are  quite  reasonable,  and 
add  to  his  loveliness  ;  for  his  utter  ignorance  and 
weakness,  and  his  enchanting  indignation  on  such 
a  small  basis  of  capital  compel  every  by-stand er  to 
take  his  part.  Every  moment  as  long  as  he  is 
awake  he  studies  the  use  of  his  eyes,  ears,  hands, 
and  feet,  learning  how  to  meet  and  avoid  his  dan 
gers,  and  thus  every  hour  loses  one  terror  more. 
But  this  education  stops  too  soon.  A  large  major 
ity  of  men  being  bred  in  families  and  beginning 
early  to  be  occupied  day  by  day  with  some  routine 
of  safe  industry,  never  come  to  the  rough  experi 
ences  that  make  the  Indian,  the  soldier,  or  the 
frontiersman  self-subsistent  and  fearless.  Hence 
the  high  price  of  courage  indicates  the  general  ti 
midity.  "Mankind,"  said  Franklin,  "are  das 
tardly  when  they  meet  with  opposition."  In  war 
even  generals  are  seldom  found  eager  to  give  bat 
tle.  Lord  Wellington  said,  "  Uniforms  were  often 
masks  ;  "  and  again,  "  When  my  journal  appears, 
many  statues  must  come  down."  The  Norse  Sagas 


244  COURAGE. 

relate  that  when  Bishop  Magne  reproved  King 
Sigurd  for  his  wicked  divorce,  the  priest  who  at 
tended  the  bishop,  expecting  every  moment  when 
the  savage  king  would  burst  with  rage  and  slay  his 
superior,  said  that  he  "  saw  the  sky  no  bigger  than 
a  calf-skin."  And  I  remember  when  a  pair  of 
Irish  girls  who  had  been  run  away  with  in  a  wagon 
by  a  skittish  horse,  said  that  when  he  began  to 
rear,  they  were  so  frightened  that  they  could  not 
see  the  horse. 

Cowardice  shuts  the  eyes  till  the  sky  is  not 
larger  than  a  calf -skin ;  shuts  the  eyes  so  that  we 
cannot  see  the  horse  that  is  running  away  with  us ; 
worse,  shuts  the  eyes  of  the  mind  and  chills  the 
heart.  Fear  is  cruel  and  mean.  The  political 
reigns  of  terror  have  been  reigns  of  madness  and 
malignity,  —  a  total  perversion  of  opinion  ;  society 
is  upside  down,  and  its  best  men  are  thought  too 
bad  to  live.  Then  the  protection  which  a  house,  a 
family,  neighborhood  and  property,  even  the  first 
accumulation  of  savings  gives,  go  in  all  times  to 
generate  this  taint  of  the  respectable  classes. 
Those  political  parties  which  gather-in  the  well-dis 
posed  portion  of  the  community,  —  how  infirm  and 
ignoble  !  what  white  lips  they  have  !  always  on  the 
defensive,  as  if  the  lead  were  intrusted  to  the  jour 
nals,  often  written  in  great  part  by  women  and 
boys,  who,  without  strength,  wish  to  keep  up  the  ap- 


COURAGE.  245 

pearance  of  strength.  They  can  do  the  hurras,  the 
placarding,  the  flags,  —  and  the  voting,  i£  it  is  a 
fair  day ;  but  the  aggressive  attitude  of  men  who 
will  have  right  done,  will  no  longer  be  bothered 
with  burglars  and  ruffians  in  the  streets,  counter 
feiters  in  public  offices,  and  thieves  on  the  bench  ; 
that  part,  the  part  of  the  leader  and  soul  of  the 
vigilance  committee,  must  be  taken  by  stout  and 
sincere  men  who  are  really  angry  and  determined. 
In  ordinary,  we  have  a  snappish  criticism  which 
watches  and  contradicts  the  opposite  party.  We 
want  the  will  which  advances  and  dictates.  When 
we  get  an  advantage,  as  in  Congress  the  other  day, 
it  is  because  our  adversary  has  committed  a  fault, 
not  that  we  have  taken  the  initiative  and  given  the 
law.  Nature  has  made  up  her  mind  that  what  can 
not  defend  itself  shall  not  be  defended.  Complain 
ing  never  so  loud  and  with  never  so  much  reason  is 
of  no  use.  One  heard  much  cant  of  peace-par 
ties  long  ago  in  Kansas  and  elsewhere,  that  their 
strength  lay  in  the  greatness  of  their  wrongs,  and 
dissuading  all  resistance,  as  if  to  make  this  strength 
greater.  But  were  their  wrongs  greater  than  the 
negro's  ?  And  what  kind  of  strength  did  they 
ever  give  him?  It  was  always  invitation  to  the 
tyrant,  and  bred  disgust  in  those  who  would  pro 
tect  the  victim.  What  cannot  stand  must  fall ;  and 
the  measure  of  our  sincerity  and  therefore  of  the 


246  COURAGE. 

respect  of  men,  is  the  amount  of  health  and  wealth 
we  will  hazard  in  the  defence  of  our  right.  An 
old  farmer,  my  neighbor  across  the  fence,  when  I 
ask  him  if  he  is  not  going  to  town-meeting,  sa}rs  : 
"  No  ;  't  is  no  use  balloting,  for  it  will  not  stay  ;  but 
what  you  do  with  the  gun  will  stay  so."  Nature 
has  charged  every  one  with  his  own  defence  as  with 
his  own  support,  and  the  only  title  I  can  have  to 
your  help  is  when  I  have  manfully  put  forth  all  the 
means  I  possess- to  keep  me,  and  being  overborne 
by  odds,  the  by-standers  have  a  natural  wish  to  in 
terfere  and  see  fair  play. 

But  with  this  pacific  education  we  have  no  readi 
ness  for  bad  times.  I  am  much  mistaken  if  every 
man  who  went  to  the  army  in  the  late  war  had  not 
a  lively  curiosity  to  know  how  he  should  behave  in 
action.  Tender,  amiable  boys,  who  had  never  en 
countered  any  rougher  play  than  a  base-ball  match 
or  a  fishing  excursion,  were  suddenly  drawn  up  to 
face  a  bayonet  charge  or  capture  a  battery.  Of 
course  they  must  each  go  into  that  action  with  a 
certain  despair.  Each  whispers  to  himself  :  "  My 
exertions  must  be  of  small  account  to  the  result ; 
only  will  the  benignant  Heaven  save  me  from  dis 
gracing  myself  and  my  friends  and  my  State.  Die ! 
O  yes,  I  can  well  die ;  but  I  cannot  afford  to  mis 
behave;  and  I  do  not  know  how  I  shall  feel."  So 
great  a  soldier  as  the  old  French  Marshal  Montluc 


COURAGE  247 

acknowledges  that  he  has  often  trembled  with  fear, 
and  recovered  courage  when  he  had  said  a  prayer 
for  the  occasion.  I  knew  a  young  soldier  who 
died  in  the  early  campaign,  who  confided  to  his 
sister  that  he  had  made  up  his  mind  to  volunteer 
for  the  war.  "I  have  not,"  he  said,  "any  proper 
courage,  but. I  shall  never  let  any  one  find  it  out." 
And  he  had  accustomed  himself  always  to  go  into 
whatever  place  of  danger,  and  do  whatever  he  was 
afraid  to  do,  setting  a  dogged  resolution  to  resist 
this  natural  infirmity.  Coleridge  has  preserved 
an  anecdote  of  an  officer  in  the  British  Navy  who 
told  him  that  when  he,  in  his  first  boat  expedition, 
a  midshipman  in  his  fourteenth  year,  accompanied 
Sir  Alexander  Ball,  "  as  we  were  rowing  up  to  the 
vessel  we  were  to  attack,  amid  a  discharge  of  mus 
ketry,  I  was  overpowered  with  fear,  my  knees  shook 
and  I  was  ready  to  faint  away.  Lieutenant  Ball 
seeing  me,  placed  himself  close  beside  me,  took  hold 
of  niy  hand  and  whispered,  '  Courage,  my  dear  boy ! 
you  will  recover  in  a  minute  or  so  ;  I  was  just  the 
same  when  I  first  went  out  in  this  way.'  It  was  as 
if  an  angel  spoke  to  me.  From  that  moment  I  was 
as  fearless  and  as  forward  as  the  oldest  of  the 
boat's  crew.  But  I  dare  not  think  what  would 
have  become  of  me,  if,  at  that  moment,  he  had 
scoffed  and  exposed  me." 

Knowledge  is  the  antidote  to  fear,  —  Knowledge, 


248  COURAGE. 

Use,  and  Reason,  with  its  higher  aids.  The  child 
is  as  much  in  danger  from  a  staircase,  or  the  fire 
grate,  or  a  bath-tub,  or  a  cat,  as  the  soldier  from  a 
cannon  or  an  ambush.  Each  surmounts  the  fear 
as  fast  as  he  precisely  understands  the  peril  and 
learns  the  means  of  resistance.  Each  is  liable  to 
panic,  which  is,  exactly,  the  terror  of  ignorance 
surrendered  to  the  imagination.  Knowledge  is  the 
encourager,  knowledge  that  takes  fear  out  of  the 
heart,  knowledge  and  use,  which  is  knowledge  in 
practice.  They  can  conquer  who  believe  they  can. 
It  is  he  who  has  done  the  deed  once  who  does  not 
shrink  from  attempting  it  again.  It  is  the  groom 
who  knows  the  jumping  horse  well  who.  can  safely 
ride  him.  It  is  the  veteran  soldier,  who,  seeing  the 
flash  of  the  cannon,  can  step  aside  from  the  path  of 
the  ball.  Use  makes  a  better  soldier  than  the  most 
urgent  considerations  of  duty,  —  familiarity  with 
danger  enabling  him  to  estimate  the  clanger.  He 
sees  how  much  is  the  risk,  and  is  not  afflicted  with 
imagination ;  knows  practically  Marshal  Saxe's  rule, 
that  every  soldier  killed  costs  the  enemy  his  weight 
in  lead. 

The  sailor  loses  fear  as  fast  as  he  acquires  com 
mand  of  sails  and  spars  and  steam  ;  the  frontiers 
man,  when  he  has  a  perfect  rifle  and  has  acquired 
a  sure  aim.  To  the  sailor's  experience  every  new 
circumstance  suggests  what  he  must  do.  The  ter- 


COURAGE.  249 

rific  chances  which  make  the  hours  and  the  minutes 
long  to  the  passenger,  he  whiles  away  by  incessant 
application  of  expedients  and  repairs.  To  him  a 
leak,  a  hurricane,  or  a  water-spout  is  so  much  work, 
—  110  more.  The  hunter  is  not  alarmed  by  bears, 
catamounts,  or  wolves,  nor  the  grazier  by  his  bull, 
nor  the  dog-breeder  by  his  bloodhound,  nor  an  Arab 
by  the  simoon,  nor  a  farmer  by  a  fire  in  the  woods. 
The  forest  on  fire  looks  discouraging  enough  to  a 
citizen :  the  farmer  is  skilful  to  fight  it.  The 
neighbors  run  together  ;  with  pine  boughs  they  can 
mop  out  the  flame,  and  by  raking  with  the  hoe  a 
long  but  little  trench,  confine  to  a  patch  the  fire 
which  would  easily  spread  over  a  hundred  acres. 

In  short,  courage  consists  in  equality  to  the  prob 
lem  before  us.  The  school-boy  is  daunted  before 
his  tutor  by  a  question  of  arithmetic,  because  he 
does  not  yet  command  the  simple  steps  of  the  solu 
tion  which  the  boy  beside  him  has  mastered.  These 
once  seen,  he  is  as  cool  as  Archimedes,  and  cheerily 
proceeds  a  step  farther.  Courage  is  equality  to  the 
problem,  in  affairs,  in  science,  in  trade,  in  council, 
or  in  action  ;  consists  in  the  conviction  that  the 
agents  with  whom  you  contend  are  not  superior  in 
strength  of  resources  or  spirif  to  you.  The  general 
must  stimulate  the  mind  of  his  soldiers  to  the  per 
ception  that  they  are  men,  and  the  enemy  is  no 
more.  Knowledge,  yes  ;  for  the  danger  of  dangers 


250  COURAGE. 

is  illusion.  The  eye  is  easily  daunted  ;  and  the 
drums,  flags,  shining  helmets,  beard,  and  moustache 
of  the  soldier  have  conquered  you  long  before  his 
sword  or  bayonet  reaches  you. 

But  we  do  not  exhaust  the  subject  in  the  slight 
analysis  ;  we  must  not  forget  the  variety  of  tem 
peraments,  each  of  which  qualifies  this  power  of  re 
sistance.  It  is  observed  that  men  with  little  imagi 
nation  are  less  fearful ;  they  wait  till  they  feel  pain, 
whilst  others  of  more  sensibility  anticipate  it,  and 
suffer  in  the  fear  of  the  pang  more  acutely  than  in 
the  pang.  'Tis  certain  that  the  threat  is  sometimes 
more  formidable  than  the  stroke,  and  't  is  possible 
that  the  beholders  suffer  more  keenly  than  the  vic 
tims.  Bodily  pain  is  superficial,  seated  usually  in 
the  skin  and  the  extremities,  for  the  sake  of  giving 
us  warning  to  put  us  on  our  guard  ;  not  in  the 
vitals,  where  the  rupture  that  produces  death  is 
perhaps  not  felt,  and  the  victim  never  knew  what 
hurt  him.  Pain  is  superficial,  and  therefore  fear 
is.  The  torments  of  martyrdoms  are  probably  most 
keenly  felt  by  the  by-standers.  The  torments  are 
illusory.  The  first  suffering  is  the  last  suffering, 
the  later  hurts  being  lost  on  insensibility.  Our  af 
fections  and  wishes  for  the  external  welfare  of  the 
hero  tumultuously  rush  to  expression  in  tears  and 
outcries ;  but  we,  like  him,  subside  into  iiidifferency 
and  defiance  when  we  perceive  how  short  is  the 
longest  arm  of  malice,  how  serene  is  the  sufferer. 


COURAGE.  251 

It  is  plain  that  there  is  no  separate  essence  called 
courage,  no  cup  or  cell  in  the  brain,  no  vessel  in 
the  heart  containing  drops  or  atoms  that  make  or 
give  this  virtue ;  but  it  is  the  right  or  healthy  state 
of  every  man,  when  he  is  free  to  do  that  which  is 
constitutional  to  him  to  do.  It  is  directness, — the 
instant  performing  of  that  which  he  ought.  The 
thoughtful  man  says,  You  differ  from  me  in  opinion 
and  methods,  but  do  you  not  see  that  I  cannot  think 
or  act  otherwise  than  I  do  ?  that  my  way  of  living 
is  organic  ?  And  to  be  really  strong  we  must 
adhere  to  our  own  means.  On  organic  action  all 
strength  depends.  Hear  what  women  say  of  doing 
a  task  by  sheer  force  of  will :  it  costs  them  a  fit  of 
sickness.  Plutarch  relates  that  the  Pythoness  who 
tried  to  prophesy  without  command  in  the  Temple 
at  Delphi,  though  she  performed  the  usual  rites, 
and  inhaled  the  air  of  the  cavern  standing  on  the 
tripod,  fell  into  convulsions  and  died.  Undoubtedly 
there  is  a  temperamental  courage,  a  warlike  blood, 
which  loves  a  fight,  does  not  feel  itself  except  in  a 
quarrel,  as  one  sees  in  wasps,  or  ants,  or  cocks,  or 
cats.  The  like  vein  appears  in  certain  races  of  men 
and  in  individuals  of  every  race.  In  every  school 
there  are  certain  fighting  boys ;  in  every  society,  the 
contradicting  men ;  in  every  town,  bravoes  and 
bullies,  better  or  worse  dressed,  fancy-men,  patrons 
of  the  cock-pit  and  the  ring.  Courage  is  temper- 


252  COURAGE. 

amental,  scientific,  ideal.  Swedenborg  has  left  this 
record  of  his  king  :  "  Charles  XII.  of  Sweden  did 
not  know  what  that  was  which  others  called  fear,  nor 
what  that  spurious  valor  and  daring  that  is  excited 
by  inebriating  draughts,  for  he  never  tasted  any 
liquid  but  pure  water.  Of  him  we  may  say  that 
he  led  a  life  more  remote  from  death,  and  in  fact 
lived  more,  than  any  other  man."  It  was  told  of 
the  Prince  of  Conclc  that  "  there  not  being  a  more 
furious  man  in  the  world,  danger  in  fight  never  dis 
turbs  him  more  than  just  to  make  him  civil,  and  to 
command  in  words  of  great  obligation  to  his  officers 
and  men,  and  without  any  the  least  disturbance  to 
his  judgment  or  spirit."  Each  has  his  own  courage, 
as  his  own  talent ;  but  the  courage  of  the  tiger  is 
one,  and  of  the  horse  another.  The  dog  that  scorns 
to  fight,  will  fight  for  his  master.  The  llama  that 
will  carry  a  load  if  you  caress  him,  will  refuse  food 
and  die  if  he  is  scourged.  The  fury  of  onset  is  one, 
and  of  calm  endurance  another.  There  is  a  courage 
of  the  cabinet  as  well  as  a  courage  of  the  field ;  a 
courage  of  manners  in  private  assemblies,  and  an 
other  in  public  assemblies ;  a  courage  which  enables 
one  man  to  speak  masterly  to  a  hostile  company, 
whilst  another  man  who  can  easily  face  a  cannon's 
mouth  dares  not  open  his  own. 

There  is  a  courage  of  a  merchant  in  dealing  with 
his  trade,  by  which  dangerous  turns  of  affairs  are 


COURAGE.  253 

met  and  prevailed  over.  Merchants  recognize  as 
much  gallantry,  well  judged  too,  in  the  conduct 
of  a  wise  and  upright  man  of  business  in  difficult 
times,  as  soldiers  in  a  soldier. 

\x  There  is  a  courage  in  the  treatment  of  every  art 
by  a  master  in  architecture,  in  sculpture,  in  paint 
ing,  or  in  poetry,  each  cheering  the  mind  of  the 
spectator  or  receiver  as  by  true  strokes  of  genius, 
which  yet  nowise  implies  the  presence  of  physical 
valor  in  the  artist.  This  is  the  courage  of  genius, 
in  every  kind.  A  certain  quantity  of  power  be 
longs  to  a  certain  quantity  of  faculty.  The  beau 
tiful  voice  at  church  goes  sounding  on,  and  covers 
up  in  its  volume,  as  in  a  cloak,  all  the  defects  of 
the  choir.  The  singers,  I  observe,  all  yield  to  it, 
and  so  the  fair  singer  indulges  her  instinct,  and 
dares,  and  dares,  because  she  knows  she  can. 

It  gives  the  cutting  edge  to  every  profession. 
The  judge  puts  his  mind  to  the  tangle  of  contradic 
tions  in  the  case,  squarely  accosts  the  question,  and 
by  not  being  afraid  of  it,  by  dealing  with  it  as  busi 
ness  which  must  be  disposed  of,  he  sees  presently 
that  common  arithmetic  and  common  methods  ap 
ply  to  this  affair.  Perseverance  strips  it  of  all 
peculiarity,  and  ranges  it  on  the  same  ground  as 
other  business.  Morphy  played  a  daring  game  in 
chess :  the  daring  was  only  an  illusion  of  the  spec 
tator,  for  the  player  sees  his  move  to  be  well  forti- 


254  COURAGE. 

fied  and  safe.  You  may  see  the  same  dealing  in 
criticism ;  a  new  book  astonishes  for  a  few  days, 
takes  itself  out  of  common  jurisdiction,  and  nobody 
knows  what  to  say  of  it :  but  the  scholar  is  not  de 
ceived.  The  old  principles  which  books  exist  to 
express  are  more  beautiful  than  any  book ;  and  out 
of  love  of  the  reality  he  is  an  expert  judge  how  far 
the  book  has  approached  it  and  where  it  has  come 
short.  In  all  applications  't  is  the  same  power,  — 
the  habit  of  reference  to  one's  own  mind,  as  the 
home  of  all  truth  and  counsel,  and  which  can  easily 
dispose  of  any  book  because  it  can  very  well  do 
without  all  books.  When  a  confident  man  comes 
into  a  company  magnifying  this  or  that  author  he 
has  freshly  read,  the  company  grow  silent  and 
ashamed  of  their  ignorance.  But  I  remember  the 
old  professor,  whose  searching  mind  engraved  every 
word  he  spoke  on  the  memory  of  the  class,  when 
we  asked  if  he  had  read  this  or  that  shining  nov 
elty,  "  No,  I  have  never  read  that  book  ;  "  instantly 
the  book  lost  credit,  and  was  not  to  be  heard  of 
again. 

Every  creature  has  a  courage  of  his  constitution 
fit  for  his  duties  :  —  Archimedes,  the  courage  of  a 
geometer  to  stick  to  his  diagram,  heedless  of  the 
siege  and  sack  of  the  city  ;  and  the  Roman  soldier 
his  faculty  to  strike  at  Archimedes.  Each  is  strong, 
relying  on  his  own,  and  each  is  betrayed  when  he 
seeks  in  himself  the  courage  of  others. 


COURAGE.  255 

Captain  John  Brown,  the  hero  of  Kansas,  said 
to  me  in  conversation,  that  "  for  a  settler  in  a  new 
country,  one  good,  believing,  strong-minded  man  is 
worth  a  hundred,  nay,  a  thousand  men  without 
character ;  and  that  the  right  men  will  give  a  per 
manent  direction  to  the  fortunes  of  a  state.  As 
for  the  bullying  drunkards  of  which  armies  are 
usually  made  up,  he  thought  cholera,  small-pox, 
and  consumption  as  valuable  recruits."  lie  held 
the  belief  that  courage  and  chastity  are  silent  con 
cerning  themselves.  He  said,  "  As  soon  as  I  hear 
one  of  my  men  say,  '  Ah,  let  me  only  get  my  eye 
on  such  a  man,  I  '11  bring  him  down,'  I  don't  expect 
much  aid  in  the  fight  from  that  talker.  'T  is  the 
quiet,  peaceable  men,  the  men  of  principle,  that 
make  the  best  soldiers." 

"  'T  is  still  observed  those  men  most  valiant  are 
Who  are  most  modest  ere  they  came  to  war." 

True  courage  is  not  ostentatious  ;  men  who  wish 
to  inspire  terror  seem  thereby  to  confess  themselves 
cowards.  Why  do  they  rely  on  it,  but  because 
they  know  how  potent  it  is  with  themselves  ? 

The  true  temper  has  genial  influences.  It  makes 
a  bond  of  union  between  enemies.  Governor  Wise 
of  Virginia,  in  the  record  of  his  first  intsrviews 
with  his  prisoner,  appeared  to  great  advantage.  If 
Governor  Wise  is  a  superior  man,  or  inasmuch  as 


256  COURAGE. 

he  is  a  superior  man,  he  distinguishes  John  Brown. 
As  they  confer,  they  understand  each  other  swiftly ; 
each  respects  the  other.  If  opportunity  allowed, 
they  would  prefer  each  other's  society  and  desert 
their  former  companions.  Enemies  would  become 
affectionate.  Hector  and  Achilles,  Richard  and 
Saladin,  Wellington  and  Soult,  General  Daumas 
and  Ahdel  Kader,  become  aware  that  they  are 
nearer  and  more  alike  than  any  other  two,  and,  if 
their  nation  and  circumstance  did  not  keep  them 
apart,  would  run  into  each  other's  arms. 

See  too  what  good  contagion  belongs  to  it.  Ev 
erywhere  it  finds  its  own  with  magnetic  affinity. 
Courage  of  the  soldier  awakes  the  courage  of  wo 
man.  Florence  Nightingale  brings  lint  and  the 
blessinq;  of  her  shadow.  Heroic  women  offer  them- 

O 

selves  as  nurses  of  the  brave  veteran.  The  troop 
of  Virginian  infantry  that  had  inarched  to  guard 
the  prison  of  John  Brown  ask  leave  to  pay  their 
respects  to  the'  prisoner.  fpstry  and  eloquence 
catch  the  hint,  and  soar  to  a  pitch  unknown  be 
fore.  Everything  feels  the  new  breath  except  the 
old  doting  nigh-dead  politicians,  whose  heart  the 
trumpet  of  resurrection  could  not  wake. 

The  charm  of  the  best  courages  is  that  they  are 
inventions,  inspirations,  flashes  of  genius.  The  hero 
could  not  have  done  the  feat  at  another  hour,  in  a 
lower  mood.  The  best  act  of  the  marvellous  genius 


COURAGE.  257 

of  Greece  was  its  first  act ;  not  in  the  statue  or  the 
Parthenon,  but  in  the  instinct  which,  at  Thermop 
ylae,  held  Asia  at  bay,  kept  Asia  out  of  Europe,  — 
Asia  with  its  antiquities  and  organic  slavery,  — 
from  corrupting'  the  hope  and  new  morning  of  the 
West.  The  statue,  the  architecture,  were  the  later 
and  inferior  creation  of  the  same  genius.  In  view 
of  this  moment  of  history,  we  recognize  a  certain 
prophetic  instinct,  better  than  wisdom.  Napoleon 
said  well,  "  My  hand  is  immediately  connected  with 
my  head ; "  but  the  sacred  courage  is  connected 
with  the  heart.  The  head  is  a  half,  a  fraction, 
until  it  is  enlarged  and  inspired  by  the  moral  sen 
timent.  For  it  is  not  the  means  on  which  we  draw, 
as  health  or  wealth,  practical  skill  or  dexterous 
talent,  or  multitudes  of  followers,  that  count,  but 
the  aims  only.  The  aim  reacts  back  on  the  means. 
A  groat  aim  aggrandizes  the  means.  The  meal 
and  water  that  are  the  commissariat  of  the  forlorn 
liope  that  stake*  theif  lives  to  defend  the  pass  are 
sacred  as  the  Holy  Grail,  or  as  if  one  had  eyes  to 
see  in  chemistry  the  fuel  that  is  rushing  to  feed  the 
sun. 

There  is  a  persuasion  in  the  soul  of  man  that 
he  is  here  for  cause,  that  he  was  put  down  in  this 
plnce  by  the  Creator  to  do  the  work  for  which  lie 
inspires  him,  that  thus  he  is  an  overmatch  for  all 
antagonists  that  could  combine  against  him.  The 

VOL.  VII.  17 


258  COURAGE. 

pious  Mrs.  Hutcliinson  says  of  some  passages  in 
the  defence  of  Nottingham  against  the  Cavaliers, 
"  It  was  a  great  instruction  that  the  best  and  high 
est  courages  are  beams  of  the  Almighty."  And 
Vv'henever  the  religious  sentiment  is  adequately  af 
firmed,  it  must  be  with  dazzling  courage.  As  long 
as  it  is  cowardly  insinuated,  as  with  the  wish  to 
succor  some  partial  and  temporary  interest,  or  to 
make  it  affirm  some  pragmatical  tenet  which  our 
parish  church  receives  to-day,  it  is  not  imparted, 
and  cannot  inspire  or  create.  For  it  is  always  new, 
leads  and  surprises,  and  practice  never  comes  up 
with  it.  There  are  ever  appearing  in  the  world 
men  who,  almost  as  soon  as  they  are  born,  take  a 
bee-line  to  the  rack  of  the  inquisitor,  the  axe  of 
the  t}rrant,  like  Giordano  Bruno,  Vanini.  Huss, 
Paul,  Jesus,  and  Socrates.  Look  at  Fox's  Lives 
of  the  Martyrs,  Sewel's  History  of  the  Quakers, 
Southey's  Book  of  the  Church,  at  the  folios  of  the 
Brothers  Bollandi,  who  collected  the  lives  of  twen 
ty-five  thousand  martyrs,  confessors,  ascetics,  and 
self -tormentors.  There  is  much  of  fable,  but  a 
broad  basis  of  fact.  The  tender  skin  does  not 
shrink  from  bayonets,  the  timid  woman  is  not 
scared  by  fagots  ;  the  rack  is  not  frightful,  nor  the 
rope  ignominious.  The  poor  Puritan,  Antony  Par 
sons,  at  the  stake,  tied  straw  on  his  head  when  the 
fire  approached  him,  and  said,  "  This  is  God's  hat." 


COURAGE.  259 

Sacred  courage  indicates  that  a  man  loves  an  idea 
better  than  all  things  in  the  world ;  that  he  is  aim 
ing  neither  at  pelf  or  comfort,  but  will  venture 
all  to  put  in  act  the  invisible  thought  in  his  mind. 
He  is  everywhere  a  liberator,  but  of  a  freedom  that 
is  ideal ;  not  seeking  to  have,  land  or  money  or 
conveniences,  but  to  have  no  other  limitation  than 
that  which  his  own  constitution  imposes.  He  is 
free  to  speak  truth ;  he  is  not  free  to  lie.  He 
wishes  to  break  every  yoke  all  over  the  world 
which  hinders  his  brother  from  acting  after  his 
thought. 

There  are  degrees  of  courage,  and  each  step  up 
ward  makes  us  acquainted  with  a  higher  virtue. 
Let  us  say  then  frankly  that  the  education  of  the 
will  is  the  object  of  our  existence.  Poverty,  the 
prison,  the  rack,  the  fire,  the  hatred  and  execra 
tions  of  our  fellow-men,  appear  trials  beyond  the 
endurance  of  common  humanity ;  but  to  the  hero 
whose  intellect  is  aggrandized  by  the  soul,  and  so 
measures  these  penalties  against  the  good  which 
his  thought  surveys,  these  terrors  vanish  as  dark 
ness  at  sunrise. 

We  have  little  right  in  piping  times  of  peace  to 
pronounce  on  these  rare  heights  of  character ;  but 
there  is  no  assurance  of  security.  In  the  most  pri 
vate  life,  difficult  duty  is  never  far  off.  Therefore 
we  must  think  with  courage.  Scholars  and  think- 


260  COURAGE. 

ers  are  prone  to  an  effeminate  habit,  and  shrink 
if  a  coarser  shout  comes  up  from  the  street,  or  a 
brutal  act  is  recorded  in  the  journals.  The  Med 
ical  College  piles  up  in  its  museum  its  grim  mon 
sters  of  morbid  anatomy,  and  there  are  melancholy 
sceptics  with  a  taste  for  carrion  who  batten  on 
the  hideous  facts  in  history,  —  persecutions,  inqui 
sitions,  St.  Bartholomew  massacres,  devilish  lives, 
Nero,  Caesar,  Borgia,  Marat,  Lopez ;  men  in  whom 
every  ray  of  humanity  was  extinguished,  parricides, 
matricides,  and  whatever  moral  monsters.  These 
are  not  cheerful  facts,  but  they  do  not  disturb  a 
healthy  mind ;  they  require  of  us  a  patience  as  ro 
bust  as  the  energy  that  attacks  us,  and  an  unrest 
ing  exploration  of  final  causes.  Wolf,  snake,  and 
crocodile  are  not  inharmonious  in  nature,  but  are 
made  useful  as  checks,  scavengers,  and  pioneers  ; 
and  we  must  have  a  scope  as  large  as  Nature's  to 
deal  with  beast-like  men,  detect  what  scullion  func 
tion  is  assigned  them,  and  foresee  in  the  secular 
melioration  of  the  planet  how  these  will  become 
unnecessary  and  will  die  out. 

He  has  not  learned  the  lesson  of  life  who  does 
not  every  day  surmount  a  fear.  I  do  not  wish  to 
put  myself  or  any  man  into  a  theatrical  position, 
or  urge  him  to  ape  the  courage  of  his  comrade. 
Have  the  courage  not  to  adopt  another's  courage. 
There  is  scope  and  cause  and  resistance  enough  for 


COURAGE. 

us  in  our  proper  work  and  circumstance, 
there  is  no  creed  of  an  honest  man,  be  he  Chris 
tian,  Turk,  or  Gento6,  which  does  not  equally 
preach  it.  If  you  have  no  faith  in  beneficent 
power  above  you,  but  see  only  an  adamantine  fate 
coiling  its  folds  about  nature  and  man,  then  reflect 
that  the  best  use  of  fate  is  to  teach  us  courage,  if 
only  because  baseness  cannot  change  the  appointed 
event.  If  you  accept  your  thoughts  as  inspirations 
from  the  Supreme  Intelligence,  obey  them  when 
they  prescribe  difficult  duties,  because  they  come 
only  so  long  as  they  are  used ;  or,  if  your  scepti 
cism  reaches  to  the  last  verge,  and  you  have  no 
confidence  in  any  foreign  mind,  then  be  brave,  be 
cause  there  is  one  good  opinion  which  must  always 
be  of  consequence  to  you,  namely,  your  own. 


I  am  permitted  to  enrich  my  chapter  by  adding 
an  anecdote  of  pure  courage  from  real  life,  as  nar 
rated  in  a  ballad  by  a  lady  to  whom  all  the  partic 
ulars  of  the  fact  are  exactly  known. 

GEORGE    NIDIVER. 

Men  have  done  brave  deeds, 

And  bards  have  sung  them  well: 

I  of  good  George  ISTidiver 
Now  the  tale  wiU  tell. 


262  COURAGE. 

In  California!!  mountains 
A  hunter  bold  was  he  : 

Keen  his  eye  and  sure  his  aim 
As  any  you  should  see. 

A  little  Indian  boy 

Followed  him  everywhere, 

Eager  to  share  the  hunter's  joy, 
The  hunter's  meal  to  share. 

And  when  the  bird  or  deer 
Fell  by  the  hunter's  skill, 

The  boy  was  always  near 

To  help  with  right  good- will. 

One  day  as  through  the  cleft 
Between  two  mountains  steep, 

Shut  in  both  right  and  left, 
Their  questing  way  they  keep, 

They  see  two  grizzly  bears 
With  hunger  fierce  and  fell 

Rush  at  them  unawares 

Right  down  the  narrow  dell. 

The  boy  turned  round  with  screams, 
And  ran  with  terror  wild  ; 

One  of  the  pair  of  savage  beasts 
Pursued  the  shrieking  child. 

The  hunter  raised  his  gun,  — 
He  knew  one  charge  was  all,  — 

And  through  the  boy's  pursuing  foe 
He  sent  his  only  ball. 


COURAGE.  263 

The  other  on  George  ISFidiver 

Came  on  with  dreadful  pace: 
The  hunter  stood  unarmed, 

And  met  him  face  to  face. 

I  say  unarmed  he  stood. 

Against  those  frightful  paws 
The  rifle  butt,  or  club  of  wood, 

Could  stand  no  more  than  straws. 

George  Nidiver  stood  still 

And  looked  him  in  the  face  ; 
The  wild  beast  stopped  amazed, 

Then  came  with  slackening  pace. 

Still  firm  the  hunter  stood, 

Although  his  heart  beat  high  ; 
Again  the  creature  stopped, 

And  gazed  with  wondering  eye. 

The  hunter  met  Ins  gaze, 

Nor  yet  an  inch  gave  way; 
The  bear  turned  slowly  round, 

And  slowly  moved  away. 

What  thoughts  were  in  his  mind 

It  would  be  hard  to  spell  : 
What  thoughts  were  in  George  Nidiver 

I  rather  guess  than  tell. 

But  sure  that  rifle's  aim, 

Swift  choice  of  generous  part, 
Showed  in  its  passing  gleam 

The  depths  of  a  brave  heart. 


SUCCESS. 


SUCCESS. 


OUR,  American  people  cannot  be  taxed  with 
slowness  in  performance  or  in  praising  their  per 
formance.  The  earth  is  shaken  by  our  engineries. 
We  are  feeling  our  youth  and  nerve  and  bone. 
We  have  the  power  of  territory  and  of  sea-coast, 
and  know  the  use  of  these.  We  count  our  cen 
sus,  we  read  our  growing  valuations,  we  survey 
our  map,  which  becomes  old  in  a  year  or  two.  Our 
eyes  run  approvingly  along  the  lengthened  lines  of 
railroad  and  telegraph.  We  have  gone  nearest  to 
the  Pole.  We  have  discovered  the  Antartic  conti 
nent.  We  interfere  in  Central  and  South  America, 
at  Canton,  and  in  Japan ;  we  are  adding  to  an  al 
ready  enormous  territory.  Our  political  constitu 
tion  is  the  hope  of  the  world,  and  we  value  our 
selves  on  all  these  feats. 

'Tis  the  way  of  the  world;  'tis  the  law  of 
youth,  and  of  unfolding  strength.  Men  are  made 
each  with  some  triumphant  superiority,  which, 
through  some  adaptation  of  fingers  or  ear  or  eye 
or  ciphering  or  pugilistic  or  musical  or  literary 


268  SUCCESS. 

craft,  enriches  the  community  with  a  new  art ;  and 
not  only  we,  but  all  men  of  European  stock,  value 
these  certificates.  Giotto  could  draw  a  perfect  cir 
cle  :  Erwin  of  Steiiibach  could  build  a  minster  ; 
Olaf ,  king  of  Norway,  could  run  round  his  galley 
on  the  blades  of  the  oars  of  the  rowers  when  the 
ship  was  in  motion  ;  Ojeda  could  run  out  swiftly 
011  a  plank  projected  from  the  top  of  a  tower,  turn 
round  swiftly  and  come  back ;  Evelyn  writes  from 
Itome  :  "  Bernini,  the  Florentine  sculptor,  architect, 
painter  and  poet,  a  little  before  my  coming  to 
liome,  gave  a  public  opera,  wherein  he  painted  the 
scenes,  cut  the  statues,  invented  the  engines,  com 
posed  the  music,  writ  the  comedy  and  built  the 
theatre." 

"There  is  nothing  in  war"  said  Napoleon, 
"  which  I  cannot  do  by  my  own  hands.  If  there  is 
nobody  to  make  gunpowder,  I  can  manufacture  it. 
The  gun-carriages  I  know  how  to  construct.  If  it 
is  necessary  to  make  cannons  at  the  forge,  I  can 
make  them.  The  details  of  working  them  in  bat 
tle,  if  it  is  necessary  to  teach,  I  shall  teach  them. 
In  administration,  it  is  I  alone  who  have  arranged 
the  finances,  as  you  know." 

It  is  recorded  of  LimiaBus,  among  many  proofs  of 
his  beneficent  skill,  that  when  the  timber  in  the 
ship-yards  of  Sweden  was  ruined  by  rot,  Linnaeus 
was  desired  by  the  government  to  find  a  remedy. 


SUCCESS.  269 

He  studied  the  insects  that  infested  the  timber,  and 
found  that  they  laid  their  eggs  in  the  logs  within 
certain  days  in  April,  and  he  directed  that  during 
ten  days  at  that  season  the  logs  should  be  immersed 
under  water  in  the  docks ;  which  being  done,  the 
timber  was  found  to  be  uninjured. 

Columbus  at  Yeragua  found  plenty  of  gold ;  but 
leaving  the  coast,  the  ship  full  of  one  hundred  and 
fifty  skilful  seamen,  —  some  of  them  old  pilots,  and 
with  too  much  experience  of  their  craft  and  treach 
ery  to  him,  —  the  wise  admiral  kept  his  private 
record  of  his  homeward  path.  And  when  he 
reached  Spain  he  told  the  King  and  Queen  that 
"  they  may  ask  all  the  pilots  who  came  with  him 
where  is  Veragua.  Let  them  answer  and  say  if 
they  know  where  Veragua  lies.  I  assert  that  they 
can  give  no  other  account  than  that  they  went  to 
lands  where  there  was  abundance  of  gold,  but  they 
do  not  know  the  way  to  return  thither,  but  would 
be  obliged  to  go  on  a  voyage  of  discovery  as  much 
as  if  they  had  never  been  there  before.  There  is  a 
mode  of  reckoning,"  he  proudly  adds,  "derived 
from  astronomy,  which  is  sure  and  safe  to  any  one 
who  understands  it." 

Hippocrates  in  Greece  knew  how  to  stay  the  de 
vouring  plague  which  ravaged  Athens  in  his  time, 
and  his  skill  died  with  him.  Dr.  Benjamin  Rush, 
in  Philadelphia,  carried  that  city  heroically  through 


270  SUCCESS. 

the  yellow  fever  of  the  year  1793.  Leverrier  car 
ried  the  Copernican  system  in  his  head,  and  knew 
where  to  look  for  the  new  planet.  We  have  seen 
an  American  woman  write  a  novel  of  which  a  mill 
ion  copies  were  sold,  in  all  languages,  and  which 
had  one  merit,  of  speaking  to  the  universal  heart, 
and  was  read  with  equal  interest  to  three  audiences, 
namely,  in  the  parlor,  in  the  kitchen,  and  in  the 
nursery  of  every  house.  We  have  seen  women  who 
could  institute  hospitals  and  schools  in  armies.  We 
have  seen  a  woman  who  by  pure  song  could  melt 
the  souls  of  whole  populations.  And  there  is  no 
limit  to  these  varieties  of  talent. 

These  are  arts  to  be  thankful  for,  —  each  one  as 
it  is  a  new  direction  of  human  power.  We  cannot 
choose  but  respect  them.  Our  civilization  is  made 
up  of  a  million  contributions  of  this  kind.  For  suc 
cess,  to  be  sure  we  esteem  it  a  test  in  other  people, 
since  we  do  first  in  ourselves.  We  respect  our 
selves  more  if  we  have  succeeded.  Neither  do  wre 
grudge  to  each  of  these  benefactors  the  praise  or 
the  profit  which  accrues  from  his  industry. 

Here  are  already  quite  different  degrees  of  moral 
merit  in  these  examples.  I  don't  know  but  we  and 
our  race  elsewhere  set  a  higher  value  on  wealth, 
victory,  and  coarse  superiority  of  all  kinds,  than 
other  men,  —  have  less  tranquillity  of  mind,  are  less 
easily  contented.  The  Saxon  is  taught  from  his  in- 


SUCCESS.  271 

fancy  to  wish  to  be  first.  The  Norseman  was  a  rest 
less  rider,  fighter,  freebooter.  The  ancient  Norse 
ballads  describe  him  as  afflicted  with  this  inextin 
guishable  thirst  of  victory.  The  mother  says  to  her 
son  :  — 

"  Success  shall  be  in  thy  courser  tall, 
Success  in  thyself,  which  is  Lest  of  all, 
Success  in  thy  hand,  success  in  thy  foot, 
In  struggle  with  man,  in  battle  with  brute  :  — 
The  holy  God  and  Saint  Drothin  dear 
Shall  never  shut  eyes  on  thy  career  ; 

Look  out,  look  out,  Svend  Vonved  !  " 

These  feats  that  we  extol  do  not  signify  so  much 
as  we  say.  These  boasted  arts  are  of  very  recent 
origin.  They  are  local  conveniences,  but  do  not 
really  add  to  our  stature.  The  greatest  men  of  the 
world  have  managed  not  to,  want  them.  Newton 
was  a  great  man,  without  telegraph,  or  gas,  or 
steam-coach,  or  rubber  shoes,  or  Lucifer-matches,  or 
ether  for  his  pain  ;  so  was  Shakspeare,  and  Alfred, 
and  Scipio,  and  Socrates.  These  are  local  conven 
iences,  but  how  easy  to  go  now  to  parts  of  the  world 
where  not  only  all  these  arts  are  wanting,  but  where 
they  are  despised.  The  Arabian  sheiks,  the  most 
dignified  people  in  the  planet,  do  not  want  them ; 
yet  have  as  much  self-respect  as  the  English,  and 
are  easily  able  to  impress  the  Frenchman  or  the 
American  who  visits  them  with  the  respect  due  to 
a  brave  and  sufficient  man, 


272  SUCCESS. 

These  feats  have  to  be  sure  great  difference  of 
merit,  and  some  of  them  involve  power  of  a  high 
kind.  But  the  public  values  the  invention  more 
than  the  inventor  does.  The  inventor  knows  there 
is  much  more  and  better  where  this  came  from. 
The  public  sees  in  it  a  lucrative  secret.  Men  see 
the  reward  which  the  inventor  enjoys,  and  they 
think,  '  Plow  shall  we  win  that  ? '  Cause  and  effect 
are  a  little  tedious  ;  how  to  leap  to  the  result  by 
short  or  by  false  means?  We  are  not  scrupulous. 
What  we  ask  is  victory,  without  regard  to  the  cause ; 
after  the  Hob  Roy  rule,  after  the  Napoleon  rule,  to 
be  the  strongest  to-day,  —  the  way  of  the  Talley- 
rancls,  prudent  people,  whose  watches  go  faster 
than  their  neighbors',  and  who  detect  the  first  mo 
ment  of  decline  and  throw  themselves  on  the  instant 
on  the  winning  side.  I  have  heard  that  Nelson 
used  to  say,  "  Never  mind  the  justice  or  the  impu 
dence,  only  let  me  succeed."  Lord  Brougham's  sin 
gle  duty  of  counsel  is,  "  to  get  the  prisoner  clear." 
Fuller  says  't  is  a  maxim  of  lawyers  that  "a  crown 
once  worn  cleareth  all  defects  of  the  wearer  thereof." 
Ilien  ne  reussit  miciix  que  le  succes.  And  we 
Americans  are  tainted  with  this  insanity,  as  our 
bankruptcies  and  our  reckless  politics  may  show. 
We  are  great  by  exclusion,  grasping,  and  egotism. 
Our  success  takes  from  all  what  it  gives  to  one. 
'Tis  a  haggard,  malignant,  careworn  running  for 
luck. 


SUCCESS.  273 

Egotism  is  a  kind  of  buckram  that  gives  momen 
tary  strength  and  concentration  to  men,  and  seems 
to  be  much  used  in  nature  for  fabrics  in  which  local 
and  spasmodic  energy  is  required.  I  could  point  to 
men  in  this  country,  of  indispensable  importance  to 
the  carrying  on  of  American  life,  of  this  humor, 
whom  we  could  ill  spare  ;  any  one  of  them  would  be 
a  national  loss.  But  it  spoils  conversation.  They 
will  not  try  conclusions  with  you.  They  are  ever 
thrusting  this  pampered  self  between  you  and  them. 
It  is  plain  they  have  a  long  education  to  undergo 
to  reach  simplicity  and  plain  -  dealing,  which  are 
what  a  wise  man  mainly  cares  for  in  his  companion. 
Nature  knows  how  to  convert  evil  to  good  ;  Nature 
utilizes  misers,  fanatics,  show-men,  egotists,  to  ac 
complish  her  ends ;  but  we  must  not  think  better 
of  the  foible  for  that.  The  passion  for  sudden 
success  is  rude  and  puerile,  just  as  war,  cannons, 
and  executions  are  used  to  clear  the  ground  of  bad, 
lumpish,  irreclaimable  savages,  but  always  to  the 
damage  of  the  conquerors. 

I  hate  this  shallow  Americanism  which  hopes  to 
get  rich  by  credit,  to  get  knowledge  by  raps  on 
midnight  tables,  to  learn,  the  economy  of  the  mind 
by  phrenology,  or  skill  without  study,  or  mastery 
without  apprenticeship,  or  the  sale  of  goods  through 
pretending  that  they  sell,  or  power  through  making 
believe  you  are  powerful,  or  through  a  packed  jury 

VOL.  VII.  18 


274  SUCCESS. 

or  caucus,  bribery  and  "repeating"  votes,  or  wealth 
by  fraud.  They  think  they  have  got  it,  but  they 
have  got  something  else,  —  a  crime  which  calls  for 
another  crime,  and  another  devil  behind  that ;  these 
are  steps  to  suicide,  infamy,  and  the  harming  of 
mankind.  We  countenance  each  other  in  this  life 
of  show,  puffing  advertisement,  and  manufacture 
of  public  opinion ;  and  excellence  is  lost  sight  of 
in  the  hunger  for  sudden  performance  and  praise. 

There  was  a  wise  man,  an  Italian  artist,  Michel 
Angelo,  who  writes  thus  of  himself  :  "  Meanwhile 
the  Cardinal  Ippolito,  in  whom  all  my  best  hopes 
were  placed,  being  dead,  I  began  to  understand  that 
the  promises  of  this  world  are  for  the  most  part 
vain  phantoms,  and  that  to  confide  in  one's  self,  and 
become  something  of  worth  and  value,  is  the  best 
and  safest  course."  Now,  though  I  am  by  no 
means  sure  that  the  reader  will  assent  to  all  my 
propositions,  yet  I  think  we  shall  agree  in  my  first 
rule  for  success,  — that  we  shall  drop  the  brag  and 
the  advertisement,  and  take  Michel  Angelo's  course, 
"  to  confide  in  one's  self,  and  be  something  of  worth 
and  value." 

Each  man  has  an  aptitude  born  with  him.  Do 
your  work.  I  have  to  say  this  often,  but  nature 
says  it  oftener.  'Tis  clownish  to  insist  on  doing 
all  with  one's  own  hands,  as  if  every  man  should 
build  his  own  clumsy  house,  forge  his  hammer,  and 


SUCCESS.  275 

bake  his  dough  ;  but  he  is  to  dare  to  do  what  he 
can  do  best ;  not  help  others  as  they  would  direct 
him,  but  as  he  knows  his  helpful  power  to  be.  To 
do  otherwise  is  to  neutralize  all  those  extraordinary 
special  talents  distributed  among  men.  Yet  whilst 
this  self-truth  is  essential  to  the  exhibition  of  the 
world  and  to  the  growth  and  glory  of  each  mind,  it 
is  rare  to  find  a  man  who  believes  his  own  thought 
or  who  speaks  that  which  he  was  created  to  say.  As 
nothing  astonishes  men  so  much  as  common-sense 
and  plain 'dealing,  so  nothing  is  more  rare  in  any 
man  than  an  act  of  his  own.  Any  work  looks  won 
derful  to  him,  except  that  which  he  can  do.  We  do 
not  believe  our  own  thought ;  we  must  serve  some 
body;  we  must  quote  somebody  ;  we  dote  on  the  old 
and  the  distant ;  we  are  tickled  by  great  names ;  we 
import  the  religion  of  other  nations ;  we  quote  their 
opinions ;  we  cite  their  laws.  The  gravest  and 
learnedest  courts  in  this  country  shudder  to  face  a 
new  question,  and  will  wait  months  and  years  for  a 
case  to  occur  that  can  be  tortured  into  a  precedent, 
and  thus  throw  on  a  bolder  party  the  onus  of  an 
initiative.  Thus  we  do  not  carry  a  counsel  in  our 
breasts,  or  do  not  know  it;  and  because  we  can 
not  shake  off  from  our  shoes  this  dust  of  Europe 
and  Asia,  the  world  seems  to  be  born  old,  society 
is  under  a  spell,  every  man  is  a  borrower  and  a 
mimic,  life  is  theatrical  and  literature  a  quotation ; 


276  SUCCESS. 

and  hence  that  depression  of  spirits,  that  furrow  of 
care,  said  to  mark  every  American  brow. 

Self-trust  is  the  first  secret  of  success,  the  belief 
that  if  you  are  here  the  authorities  of  the  universe 
put  you  here,  and  for  cause,  or  with  some  task 
strictly  appointed  you  in  your  constitution,  and  so 
long  as  you  work  at  that  you  are  well  and  success 
ful.  It  by  no  means  consists  in  rushing  prema 
turely  to  a  showy  feat  that  shall  catch  the  eye  and 
satisfy  spectators.  It  is  enough  if  you  work  in  the 
right  direction.  So  far  from  the  performance  be 
ing  the  real  success,  it  is  clear  that  the  success  was 
much  earlier  than  that,  namely,  when  all  the  feats 
that  make  our  civility  were  the  thoughts  of  good 
heads.  The  fame  of  each  discovery  rightly  attaches 
to  the  mind  that  made  the  formula  which  contains 
all  the  details,  and  not  to  the  manufacturers  who 
now  make  their  gain  by  it ;  although  the  mob  uni 
formly  cheers  the  publisher,  and  not  the  inventor. 
It  is  the  dulness  of  the  multitude  that  they  cannot 
see  the  house  in  the  ground-plan  ;  the  working,  in 
the  model  of  the  projector.  Whilst  it  is  a  thought, 
though  it  were  a  new  fuel,  or  a  new  food,  or  the 
creation  of  agriculture,  it  is  cried  down,  it  is  a  chi 
mera  ;  but  when  it  is  a  fact,  and  comes  in  the  shape 
of  eight  per  cent,  ten  per  cent,  a  hundred  per  cent, 
they  cry,  '  It  is  the  voice  of  God.'  Horatio  Green- 
ough  the  sculptor  said  to  me  of  Kobert  Fulton's 


SUCCESS.  277 

visit  to  Paris  :  "Fulton  knocked  at  the  door  of  Na- 
poleoii  with  steam,  and  was  rejected;  and  Napoleon 
lived  long  enough  to  know  that  he  had  excluded  a 
greater  power  than  his  own." 

Is  there  no  loving  of  knowledge,  and  of  art,  and 
of  our  design,  for  itself  alone  ?  Cannot  we  please 
ourselves  with  performing  our  work,  or  gaining 
truth  and  power,  without  being  praised  for  it  ?  I 
gain  my  point,  I  gain  all  points,  if  I  can  reach  my 
companion  with  any  statement  which  teaches  him 
his  own  worth.  The  sum  of  wisdom  is,  that  the 
time  is  never  lost  that  is  devoted  to  work.  The 
good  workman  never  says,  '  There,  that  will  do  ; ' 
but,  '  There,  that  is  it :  try  it,  and  come  again,  it  will 
last  always.'  If  the  artist,  in  whatever  art,  is  well 
at  work  on  his  own  design,  it  signifies  little  that  he 
does  not  yet  find  orders  or  customers.  I  pronounce 
that  young  man  happy  who  is  content  with  having 
acquired  the  skill  which  he  had  aimed  at,  and  waits 
willingly  when  the  occasion  of  making  it  appreci 
ated  shall  arrive,  knowing  well  that  it  will  not  loi 
ter.  The  time  your  rival  spends  in  dressing  up  his 
work  for  effect,  hastily,  and  for  the  market,  you 
spend  in  study  and  experiments  towards  real  knowl 
edge  and  efficiency.-  He  has  thereby  sold  his  pic 
ture  or  machine,  or  won  the  prize,  or  got  the  ap 
pointment  ;  but  you  have  raised  yourself  into  a 
higher  school  of  art,  and  a  few  years  will  show  the 


278  SUCCESS. 

advantage  of  the  real  master  over  the  short  popu 
larity  of  the  showman.  I  know  it  is  a  nice  point 
to  discriminate  this  self-trust,  which  is  the  pledge 
of  all  mental  vigor  and  performance,  from  the  dis 
ease  to  which  it  is  allied,  —  the  exaggeration  of  the 
part  which  we  can  play ;  —  yet  they  are  two  things. 
But  it  is  sanity  to  know  that,  over  my  talent  or 
knack,  and  a  million  times  better  than  any  talent, 
is  the  central  intelligence  which  subordinates  and 
uses  all  talents  ;  and  it  is  only  as  a  door  into  this, 
that  any  talent  or  the  knowledge  it  gives  is  of 
value.  He  only  who  comes  into  this  central  intel 
ligence,  in  which  no  egotism  or  exaggeration  can 
be,  comes  into  self-possession. 

My  next  point  is  that  in  the  scale  of  powers  it 
is  not  talent  but  sensibility  which  is  best :  talent 
confines,  but  the  central  life  puts  us  in  relation  to 
all.  How  often  it  seems  the  chief  good  to  be  born 
with  a  cheerful  temper  and  well  adjusted  to  the 
tone  of  the  human  race.  Such  a  man  feels  himself 
in  harmony,  and  conscious  by  his  receptivity  of  an 
infinite  strength.  Like  Alfred,  "  good  fortune  ac 
companies  him  like  a  gift  of  God."  Feel  yourself, 
and  be  not  daunted  by  things.  'T  is  the  fulness  of 
man  that  runs  over  into  objects,  and  makes  his 
Bibles  and  Shakspeares  and  Homers  so  great.  The 
joyful  reader  borrows  of  his  own  ideas  to  fill  their 
faulty  outline,  and  knows  not  that  he  borrows  and 
gives. 


SUCCESS.  279 

There  is  something  of  poverty  in  our  criticism. 
We  assume  that  there  are  few  great  men,  all  the 
rest  are  little ;  that  there  is  but  one  Homer,  but 
one  Shakspeare,  one  Newton,  one  Socrates.  But 
the  soul  in  her  beaming  hour  does  not  acknowledge 
these  usurpations.  We  should  know  how  to  praise 
Socrates,  or  Plato,  or  Saint  John,  without  impov 
erishing  us.  In  good  hours  we  do  not  find  Shak 
speare  or  Homer  over -great,  only  to  have  been 
translators  of  the  happy  present,  and  every  man 
and  woman  divine  possibilities.  'Tis  the  good 
reader  that  makes  the  good  book ;  a  good  head  can 
not  read  amiss,  in  every  book  he  finds  passages 
which  seem  confidences  or  asides  hidden  from  all 
else  and  unmistakably  meant  for  his  ear. 

The  light  by  which  we  see  in  this  world  comes 
out  from  the  soul  of  the  observer.  Wherever  any 
noble  sentiment  dwelt,  it  made  the  faces  and 
houses  around  to  shine.  Nay,  the  powers  of  this 
busy  brain  are  miraculous  and  illimitable.  Therein 
are  the  rules  and  formulas  by  which  the  whole  em 
pire  of  matter  is  worked.  There  is  no  prosperity, 
trade,  art,  city,  or  great  material  wealth  of  any 
kind,  but  if  you  trace  it  home  you  will  find  it  rooted 
in  a  thought  of  some  individual  man. 

Is  all  life  a  surface  affair?  'Tis  curious,  but 
our  difference  of  wit  appears  to  be  only  a  differ 
ence  of  impressionability,  or  power  to  appreciate 


280  SUCCESS. 

faint,  fainter,  and  infinitely  faintest  voices  and  vis 
ions.  When  the  scholar  or  the  writer  has  pumped 
his  brain  for  thoughts  and  verses,  and  then  conies 
abroad  into  Nature,  has  he  never  found  that  there 
is  a  better  poetry  hinted  in  a  boy's  whistle  of  a 
tune,  or  in  the  piping  of  a  sparrow,  than  in  all 
his  literary  results  ?  We  call  it  health.  What  is 
so  admirable  as  tho  health  of  youth?  — with  his 
long  days  because  his  eyes  are  good,  and  brisk  cir 
culations  keep  him  warm  in  cold  rooms,  and  he 
loves  books  that  speak  to  the  imagination  ;  and  he 
can  read  Plato,  covered  to  his  chin,  with  a  cloak  in 
a  cold  upper  chamber,  though  he  should  associate 
the  Dialogues  ever  after  with  a  woollen  smell.  'T  is 
the  bane  of  life  that  natural  effects  are  continually 
crowded  out,  and  artificial  arrangements  substi 
tuted.  We  remember  when  in  early  youth  the 
earth  spoke  and  the  heavens  glowed  ;  when  an 
evening,  any  evening,  grim  and  wintry,  sleet  and 
snow,  was  enough  for  us  ;  the  houses  were  in  the 
air.  Now  it  costs  a  rare  combination  of  clouds 
and  lights  to  overcome  the  common  and  mean. 
What  is  it  we  look  for  in  the  landscape,  in  sunsets 
and  sunrises,  in  the  sea  and  the  firmament  ?  what 
but  a  compensation  for  the  cramp  and  pettiness  of 
human  performances?  We  bask  in  the  day,  and 
the  mind  finds  somewhat  as  great  as  itself.  In  Na 
ture  all  is  large  massive  repose.  Kemember  what 


SUCCESS.  281 

befalls  a  city  boy  who  goes  for  the  first  time  into 
the  October  woods.  He  is  suddenly  initiated  into 
a  pomp  and  glory  that  brings  to  pass  for  him  the 
dreams  of  romance.  He  is  the  king  he  dreamed 
he  was ;  he  walks  through  tents  of  gold,  through 
bowers  of  crimson,  porphyry  and  topaz,  pavilion 
on  pavilion,  garlanded  with  vines,  flowers  and  sun 
beams,  with  incense  and  music,  with  so  many  hints 
to  his  astonished  senses ;  the  leaves  twinkle  and 
pique  and  flatter  him,  and  his  eye  and  step  are 
tempted  on  by  what  hazy  distances  to  happier  soli 
tudes.  All  this  happiness  he  owes  only  to  his  finer 
perception.  The  owner  of  the  wood-lot  finds  only 
a  number  of  discolored  trees,  and  says,  '  They 
ought  to  come  down ;  they  are  n't  growing  any  bet 
ter  ;  they  should  be  cut  and  corded  before  spring.' 
Wordsworth  writes  of  the  delights  of  the  boy  in 
Nature  :  — 

"  For  never  will  come  back  the  hour 
Of  splendor  in  the  grass,  of  glory  in  the  floAver." 

But  I  have  just  seen  a  man,  well  knowing  what  he 
spoke  of,  who  told  me  that  the  verse  was  not  true 
for  him ;  that  his  eyes  opened  as  he  grew  older, 
and  that  every  spring  was  more  beautiful  to  him 
than  the  last. 

We  live  among  gods  of  our  own  creation.  Does 
that  deep-toned  bell,  which  has  shortened  many  a 
night  of  ill  nerves,  render  to  you  nothing  but  acous- 


282  SUCCESS. 

tic  vibrations  ?  Is  the  old  church  which  gave  you 
the  first  lessons  of  religious  life,  or  the  village 
school,  or  the  college  where  you  first  knew  the 
dreams  of  fancy  and  joys  of  thought,  only  boards 
or  brick  and  mortar  ?  Is  the  house  in  which  you 
were  born,  or  the  house  in  which  your  dearest 
friend  lived,  only  a  piece  of  real  estate  whose  value 
is  covered  by  the  Hartford  insurance  ?  You  walk 
on  the  beach  and  enjoy  the  animation  of  the  pic 
ture.  Scoop  up  a  little  water  in  the  hollow  of  your 
palm,  take  up  a  handful  of  shore  sand ;  well,  these 
are  the  elements.  What  is  the  beach  but  acres  of 
sand  ?  what  is  the  ocean  but  cubic  miles  of  water  ? 
a  little  more  or  less  signifies  nothing.  No,  it  is 
that  this  brute  matter  is  part  of  somewhat  not 
brute.  It  is  that  the  sand  floor  is  held  by  spheral 
gravity,  and  bent  to  be  a  part  of  the  round  globe, 
under  the  optical  sky,  —  part  of  the  astonishing  as 
tronomy,  and  existing  at  last  to  moral  ends  and 
from  moral  causes. 

The  world  is  not  made  up  to  the  eye  of  figures, 
that  is,  only  half  ;  it  is  also  made  of  color.  How 
that  element  washes  the  universe  with  its  enchant 
ing  waves !  The  sculptor  had  ended  his  work,  and 
behold  a  new  world  of  dream-like  glory.  'T  is  the 
last  stroke  of  Nature  ;  beyond  color  she  cannot  go. 
In  like  manner,  life  is  made  up,  not  of  knowledge 
only,  but  of  love  also.  If  thought  is  form,  senti- 


SUCCESS.  283 

ment  is  color.  It  clothes  the  skeleton  world  with 
space,  variety,  and  glow.  The  hues  of  sunset  make 
life  great ;  so  the  affections  make  some  little  web 
of  cottage  and  fireside  populous,  important,  and 
filling  the  main  space  in  our  history. 

The  fundamental  fact  in  our  metaphysic  consti 
tution  is  the  correspondence  of  man  to  the  world, 
so  that  every  change  in  that  writes  a  record  in  the 
mind.  The  mind  yields  sympathetically  to  the 
tendencies  or  law  which  stream  through  things  and 
make  the  order  of  nature;  and  in  the  perfection 
of  this  correspondence  or  expressiveness,  the  health 
and  force  of  man  consist.  If  we  follow  this  hint 
into  our  intellectual  education,  we  shall  find  that  it 
is  not  propositions,  not  new  dogmas  and  a  logical 
exposition  of  the  world  that  are  our  first  need  ; 
but  to  watch  and  tenderly  cherish  the  intellectual 
and  moral  sensibilities,  those  fountains  of  right 
thought,  and  woo  them  to  stay  and  make  their 
home  with  us.  Whilst  they  abide  with  us  we  shall 
not  think  amiss.  Our  perception  far  outruns  our 
talent.  We  bring  a  welcome  to  the  highest  lessons 
of  religion  and  of  poetry  out  of  all  proportion  be 
yond  our  skill  to  teach.  And,  further,  the  great 
hearing  and  sympathy  of  men  is  more  true  and 
wise  than  their  speaking  is  wont  to  be.  A  deep 
sympathy  is  what  we  require  for  any  student  of  the 
mind ;  for  the  chief  difference  between  man  and 


284  SUCCESS. 

man  is  a  difference  of  impressionability.  Aristotle 
or  Bacon  or  Kant  propound  some  maxim  which  is 
the  key-note  of  philosophy  thenceforward.  But  I 
am  more  interested  to  know  that  when  at  last  they 
have  hurled  out  their  grand  word,  it  is  only  some 
familiar  experience  of  every  man  in  the  street.  If 
it  be  not,  it  will  never  be  heard  of  again. 

Ah !  if  one  could  keep  this  sensibility,  and  live 
in  the  happy  sufficing  present,  and  find  the  day 
and  its  cheap  means  contenting,  which  only  ask 
receptivity  in  you,  and  no  strained  exertion  and 
cankering  ambition,  overstimulating  to  be  at  the 
head  of  your  class  and  the  head  of  society,  and 
to  have  distinction  and  laurels  and  consumption! 
"We  are  not  strong  by  our  power  to  penetrate,  but 
by  our  relatedness.  The  world  is  enlarged  for  us, 
not  by  new  objects,  but  by  finding  more  affinities 
and  potencies  in  those  we  have. 

This  sensibility  appears  in  the  homage  to  beauty 
which  exalts  the  faculties  of  youth ;  in  the  power 
which  form  and  color  exert  upon  the  soul ;  when 
we  see  eyes  that  are  a  compliment  to  the  human 
race,  features  that  explain  the  Phidian  sculpture. 
Fontenelle  said :  "  There  are  three  things  about 
which  I  have  curiosity,  though  I  know  nothing  of 
them,  —  music,  poetry,  and  love."  .  The  great  doc 
tors  of  this  science  are  the  greatest  men,  —  Dante, 
Petrarch,  Michel  Angelo  and  Shakspeare.  The 


SUCCESS.  285 

wise  Socrates  treats  this  matter  with  a  certain 
archness,  yet  with  very  marked  expressions.  "  I 
am  always,"  he  says,  "  asserting  that  I  happen  to 
know,  I  may  say,  nothing  but  a  mere  trifle  relating 
to  matters  of  love ;  yet  in  that  kind  of  learning  I 
lay  claim  to  being  more  skilled  than  any  one  man 
of  the  past  or  present  time."  They  may  well  speak 
in  this  uncertain  manner  of  their  knowledge,  and 
in  this  confident  manner  of  their  will,  for  the  secret 
of  ifc  is  hard  to  detect,  so  deep  it  is ;  and  yet  genius 
is  measured  by  its  skill  in  this  science. 

Who  is  he  in  youth  or  in  maturity  or  even  in 
old  age,  who  does  not  like  to  hear  of  those  sensi 
bilities  which  turn  curled  heads  round  at  church, 
and  send  wonderful  eye-beams  across  assemblies, 
from  one  to  one,  never  missing  in  the  thickest 
crowd?  The  keen  statist  reckons  by  tens  and 
hundreds  ;  the  genial  man  is  interested  in  every 
slipper  that  comes  into  the  assembly.  The  passion, 
alike  everywhere,  creeps  under  the  snows  of  Scan 
dinavia,  under  the  fires  of  the  equator,  and  swims 
in  the  seas  of  Polynesia.  Lofn  is  as  puissant  a 
divinity  in  the  Norse  Edda  as  Camadeva  in  the 
red  vault  of  India,  Eros  in  the  Greek,  or  Cupid  in 
the  Latin  heaven.  And  what  is  specially  true  of 
love  is  that  it  is  a  state  of  extreme  impressionabil 
ity  ;  the  lover  has  more  senses  and  finer  senses  than 
others ;  his  eye  and  ear  are  telegraphs ;  he  reads 


286  SUCCESS. 

omens  on  the  flower,  and  cloud,  and  face,  and  form, 
and  gesture,  and  reads  them  aright.  In  his  sur 
prise  at  the  sudden  and  entire  understanding  that 
is  between  him  and  the  beloved  person,  it  occurs 
to  him  that  they  might  somehow  meet  indepen 
dently  of  time  and  place.  How  delicious  the  belief 
that  he  could  elude  all  guards,  precautions,  cere 
monies,  means,  and  delays,  and  hold  instant  and 
sempiternal  communication !  In  solitude,  in  ban 
ishment,  the  hope  returned,  and  the  experiment 
was  eagerly  tried.  The  supernal  powers  seem  to 
take  his  part.  What  was  on  his  lips  to  say  is 
uttered  by  his  friend.  "When  he  went  abroad,  he 
met,  by  wonderful  casualties,  the  one  person  he 
sought.  If  in  his  walk  he  chanced  to  look  back, 
his  friend  was  walking  behind  him.  And  it  has 
happened  that  the  artist  has  often  drawn  in  his 
pictures  the  face  of  the  future  wife  whom  he  had 
not  yet  seen. 

But  also  in  complacencies  nowise  so  strict  as  this 
of  the  passion,  the  man  of  sensibility  counts  it  a 
delight  only  to  hear  a  child's  voice  fully  addressed 
to  him,  or  to  see  the  beautiful  manners  of  the 
youth  of  either  sex.  When  the  event  is  past  and 
remote,  how  insignificant  the  greatest  compared 
with  the  piquancy  of  the  present !  To-day  at  the 
school  examination  the  professor  interrogates  Syl- 
viua  in  the  history  class  about  Odoacer  and  Alaric. 


SUCCESS.  287 

Sylvina  can't  remember,  but  suggests  that  Odoa- 
cer  was  defeated  ;  and  the  professor  tartly  replies, 
"  No,  he  defeated  the  Komans."  But  't  is  plain  to 
the  visitor  that  'tis  of  no  importance  at  all  about 
Odoacer  and  'tis  a  great  deal  of  importance  about 
Sylvina,  and  if  she  says  he  was  defeated,  why  he 
had  better  a  great  deal  have  been  defeated  than 
give  her  a  moment's  annoy.  Odoacer,  if  there  was 
a  particle  of  the  gentleman  in  him,  would  have 
said,  Let  me  be  defeated  a  thousand  times. 

And  as '  our  tenderness  for  youth  and  beauty 
gives  a  new  and  just  importance  to  their  fresh  and 
manifold  claims,  so  the  like  sensibility  gives  wel 
come  to  all  excellence,  has  eyes  and  hospitality  for 
merit  in  comers.  An  Englishman  of  marked  char 
acter  and  talent,  who  had  brought  with  him  hither 
one  or  two  friends  and  a  library  of  mystics,  assured 
me  that  nobody  and  nothing  of  possible  interest 
was  left  in  England,  —  he  had  brought  all  that  was 
alive  away.  I  was  forced  to  reply :  "  ISTo,  next  door 
to  you  probably,  011  the  other  side  of  the  partition 
in  the  same  house,  was  a  greater  man  than  any  you 
had  seen."  Every  man  has  a  history  worth  know 
ing,  if  he  could  tell  it,  or  if  we  could  draw  it  from 
him.  Character  and  wit  have  their  own  magnet 
ism.  Send  a  deep  man  into  any  town,  and  he  will 
find  another  deep  man  -there,  unknown  hitherto  to 
his  neighbors.  That  is  the  great  happiness  of  life, 


288  SUCCESS. 

—  to  add  to  our  high  acquaintances.  The  very 
law  of  averages  might  have  assured  you  that  there 
will  be  in  every  hundred  heads,  say  ten  or  five  good 
heads.  Morals  are  generated  as  the  atmosphere  is. 
'Tis  a  secret,  the  genesis  of  either;  but  the  springs 
of  justice  and  courage  do  not  fail  any  more  than 
salt  or  sulphur  springs. 

The  world  is  always  opulent,  the  oracles  are 
never  silent ;  but  the  receiver  must  by  a  happy 
temperance  be  brought  to  that  top  of  condition, 
that  frolic  health,  that  he  can  easily  take  and  give 
these  fine  communications.  Health  is  the  condition 
of  wisdom,  and  the  sign  is  cheerfulness,  —  an  open 
and  noble  temper.  There  was  never  poet  who  had 
not  the  heart  in  the  right  place.  The  old  trouveur, 
Pons  Capdueil,  wrote, — 

"  Oft  have  I  heard,  and  deem  the  witness  true, 
Whom  man  delights  in,  God  delights  in  too." 

All  beauty  warms  the  heart,  is  a  sign  of  health, 
prosperity,  and  the  favor  of  God.  Everything 
lasting  and  fit  for  men  the  Divine  Power  has 
marked  with  this  stamp.  What  delights,  what 
emancipates,  not  what  scares  and  pains  us  is  wise 
and  good  in  speech  and  in  the  arts.  For,  truly,  the 
heart  at  the  centre  of  the  universe  with  every  throb 
hurls  the  flood  of  happiness  into  every  artery,  vein, 
and  veinlet,  so  that  the  whole  system  is  inundated 


SUCCESS.  289 

with  the  tides  of  joy.  The  plenty  of  the  poorest 
place  is  too  great :  the  harvest  cannot  be  gathered. 
Every  sound  ends  in  music.  The  edge  of  every 
surface  is  tinged  with  prismatic  rays. 

One  more  trait  of  true  success.  The  good  mind 
chooses  what  is  positive,  what  is  advancing,  —  em 
braces  the  affirmative.  Our  system  is  one  of  pov 
erty.  'T  is  presumed,  as  I  said,  there  is  but  one 
Shakspeare,  one  Homer,  one  Jesus,  —  not  that  all 
are  or  shall  be  inspired.  But  we  must  begin  by  af 
firming.  Truth  and  goodness  subsist  forevermore. 
It  is  true  there  is  evil  and  good,  night  and  day  : 
but  these  are  not  equal.  The  day  is  great  and 
final.  The  night  is  for  the  day,  but  the  day  is  not 
for  the  night.  What  is  this  immortal  demand  for 
more,  which  belongs  to  our  constitution  ?  this  enor 
mous  ideal?  There  is  no  such  critic  and  beggar 
as  this  terrible  Soul,  No  historical  person  begins 
to  content  us.  We  know  the  satisfactoriness  of  jus 
tice,  the  sufficiency  of  truth.  We  know  the  answer 
that  leaves  nothing  to  ask.  We  know  the  Spirit 
by  its  victorious  tone.  The  searching  tests  to  ap 
ply  to  every  new  pretender  are  amount  and  qual 
ity,  —  what  does  he  add  ?  and  what  is  the  state  of 
mind  he  leaves  me  in  ?  Your  theory  is  unimpor 
tant  ;  but  what  new  stock  you  can  add  to  humanity, 
or  how  high  you  can  carry  life  ?  A  man  is  a  man 
only  as  he  makes  life  and  nature  happier  to  us. 

VOL.  VII.  19 


290  SUCCESS. 

I  fear  the  popular  notion  of  success  stands  in  di 
rect  opposition  in  all  points  to  the  real  and  whole 
some  success.  One  adores  public  opinion,  the  other 
private  opinion  ;  one  fame,  the  other  desert ;  one 
feats,  the  other  humility  ;  one  lucre,  the  other  love ; 
one  monopoly,  and  the  other  hospitality  of  mind. 

We  may  apply  this  affirmative  law  to  letters,  to 
manners,  to  art,  to  the  decorations  of  our  houses, 
etc.  I  do  not  find  executions  or  tortures  or  lazar- 
houses,  or  grisly  photographs  of  the  field  on  the  day 
after  the  battle,  fit  subjects  for  cabinet  pictures.  I 
think  that  some  so-called  "  sacred  subjects  "  must 
be  treated  with  more  genius  than  I  have  seen  in  the 
masters  of  Italian  or  Spanish  art  to  be  right  pic 
tures  for  houses  and  churches.  Nature  does  not  in 
vite  such  exhibition.  Nature  lays  the  ground-plan 
of  each  creature  accurately,  sternly  fit  for  all  his 
functions ;  then  veils  it  scrupulously.  See  how 
carefully  she  covers  up  the  skeleton.  The  eye  shall 
not  see  it ;  the  sun  shall  not  shine  on  it.  She 
weaves  her  tissues  and  integuments  of  flesh  and 
skin  and  hair  and  beautiful  colors  of  the  day  over 
it,  and  forces  death  down  underground,  and  makes 
haste  to  cover  it  up  with  leaves  and  vines,  and 
wipes  carefully  out  every  trace  by  new  creation. 
Who  and  what  are  you  that  would  lay  the  ghastly 
anatomy  bare  ? 

Don't  hang  a  dismal  picture  on  the  wall,  and  do 


SUCCESS.  291 

not  daub  with  sables  and  glooms  in  your  conversa 
tion.  Don't  be  a  cynic  and  disconsolate  preacher. 
Don't  bewail  and  bemoan.  Omit  the  negative 

O 

propositions.  Nerve  us  with  incessant  affirmatives. 
Don't  waste  yourself  in  rejection,  nor  bark  against 
the  bad,  but  chant  the  beauty  of  the  good.  When 
that  is  spoken  which  has  a  right  to  be  spoken, 
the  chatter  and  the  criticism  will  stop.  Set  down 
nothing  that  will  not  help  somebody  ;  — 

"  For  every  gift  of  noble  origin 
Is  breathed  upon  by  Hope's  perpetual  breath." 

The  affirmative  of  affirmatives  is  love.  As  much 
love,  so  much  perception.  As  caloric  to  matter,  so 
is  love  to  mind ;  so  it  enlarges,  and  so  it  empowers 
it.  Good-will  makes  insight,  as  one  finds  his  way 
to  the  sea  by  embarking  on  a  river.  I  have  seen 
scores  of  people  who  can  silence  me,  but  I  seek  one 
who  shall  make  me  forget  or  overcome  the  frigidi 
ties  and  imbecilities  into  which  I  fall.  The  painter 
Giotto,  Vasari  tells  us,  renewed  art  because  he  put 
more  goodness  into  his  heads.  To  awake  in  man 
and  to  raise  the  sense  of  worth,  to  educate  his  feel 
ing  and  judgment  so  that  he  shall  scorn  himself 
for  a  bad  action,  that  is  the  only  aim. 

'T  is  cheap  and  easy  to  destroy.  There  is  not 
a  joyful  boy  or  an  innocent  girl  buoyant  with  fine 
purposes  of  duty,  in  all  the  street  full  of  eager 
and  rosy  faces,  but  a  cynic  can  chill  and  dis- 


292  SUCCESS. 

hearten  with  a  single  word.  Despondency  comes 
readily  enough  to  the  most  sanguine.  The  cynic 
has  only  to  follow  their  hint  with  his  bitter  con 
firmation,  and  they  check  that  eager  courageous 
pace  and  go  home  with  heavier  step  and  prema 
ture  age.  They  will  themselves  quickly  enough 
give  the  hint  he  wants  to  the  cold  wretch.  Which 
of  them  has  not  failed  to  please  where  they  most 
wished  it  ?  or  blundered  where  they  were  most 
ambitious  of  success  ?  or  found  themselves  awkward 
or  tedious  or  incapable  of  study,  thought,  or  hero 
ism,  and  only  hoped  by  good  sense  and  fidelity  to 
do  what  they  could  and  pass  unblamed  ?  And  this 
witty  malefactor  makes  their  little  hope  less  with 
satire  and  scepticism,,  and  slackens  the  springs  of 
endeavor.  Yes,  this  is  easy ;  but  to  help  the  young 
soul,  add  energy,  inspire  hope  and  blow  the  coals 
into  a  useful  flame ;  to  redeem  defeat  by  new 
thought,  cy  firm  action,  that  is  not  easy,  that  is  the 
work  of  divine  ~nen, 

We  live  on  different  planes  or  platformSo  There 
is  an  external  life,  wnich  is  educated  at  school, 
taught  to  read,  write,  cipher,  and  trade ;  taught  to 
grasp  all  the  boy  can  get,  urging  him  to  put  him 
self  forward,  to  make  himself  useful  and  agreeable 
in  the  world,  to  ride,  run,  argue  and  contend,  un 
fold  his  talents,  shine,  conquer  and  possess. 

But  the  inner  life  sits  at  home,  and  does  not 


SUCCESS.  293 

learn  to  do  things,  nor  value  these  feats  at  all. 
'Tis  a  quiet,  wise  perception.  It  loves  truth,  be 
cause  it  is  itself  real ;  it  loves  right,  it  knows  noth 
ing  else  ;  but  it  makes  no  progress  ;  was  as  wise  in 
our  first  memory  of  it  as  now;  is  just  the  same  now 
in  maturity  and  hereafter  in  age,  it  was  in  youth. 
We  have  grown  to  manhood  and  womanhood  ;  we 
have  powers,  connection,  children,  reputations,  pro 
fessions  :  this  makes  no  account  of  them  all.  It 
lives  in  the  great  present ;  it  makes  the  present 
great.  This  tranquil,  well-founded,  wide -seeing 
soul  is  no  express-rider,  no  attorney,  no  magistrate: 
it  lies  in  the  sun  and  broods  on  the  world.  A  per 
son  of  this  temper  once  said  to  a  man  of  much  ac 
tivity,  "  I  will  pardon  you  that  you  do  so  much, 
and  you  me  that  I  do  nothing."  And  Euripides 
says  that  "Zeus  hates  busybodies  and  those  who 
do  too  much." 


OLD   AGE. 


OLD  AGE. 


ON  the  anniversary  of  the  Phi  Beta  Kappa  So 
ciety  at  Cambridge  in  1861,  the  venerable  Presi 
dent  Quincy,  senior  member  of  the  Society,  as  well 
as  senior  alumnus  of  the  University,  was  received 
at  the  dinner  with  peculiar  demonstrations  of  re 
spect.  He  replied  to  these  compliments  in  a  speech, 
and,  gracefully  claiming  the  privileges  of  a  literary 
society,  entered  at  some  length  into  an  Apology  for 
Old  Age,  and,  aiding  himself  by  notes  in  his  hand, 
made  a  sort  of  running  commentary  on  Cicero's 
chapter  "  De  Senectute."  The  character  of  the 
speaker,  the  transparent  good  faith  of  his  praise  and 
blame,  and  the  naivete  of  his  eager  preference  of 
Cicero's  opinions  to  King  David's,  gave  unusual  in 
terest  to  the  College  festival.  It  was  a  discourse 
full  of  dignity,  honoring  him  who  spoke  and  those 
who  heard. 

The  speech  led  me  to  look  over  at  home  —  an 
easy  task  —  Cicero's  famous  essay,  charming  by  its 
uniform  rhetorical  merit ;  heroic  with  Stoical  pre- 
cepc3;  with  a  Roman  eye  to  the  claims  of  the  State ; 


298  OLD  AGE. 

happiest  perhaps  in  his  praise  of  life  on  the  farm ; 
and  rising  at  the  conclusion  to  a  lofty  strain.  But 
he  does  not  exhaust  the  subject ;  rather  invites  the 
attempt  to  add  traits  to  the  picture  from  our  broader 
modern  life. 

Cicero  makes  no  reference  to  the  illusions  which 
cling  to  the  element  of  time,  and  in  which  Nature 
delights.  Wellington,  in  speaking  of  military  men, 
said,  "  What  masks  are  these  uniforms  to  hide 
cowards  !  "  I  have  often  detected  the  like  decep 
tion  in  the  cloth  shoe,  wadded  pelisse,  wig,  spec 
tacles  and  padded  chair  of  Age.  Nature  lends 
herself  to  these  illusions,  and  adds  dim  sight,  deaf 
ness,  cracked  voice,  snowy  hair,  short  memory  and 
sleep.  These  also  are  masks,  and  all  is  not  Age  that 
wears  them.  Whilst  we  yet  call  ourselves  young 
and  our  mates  are  yet  youths  with  even  boyish  re 
mains,  one  good  fellow  in  the  set  prematurely  sports 
a  gray  or  a  bald  head,  which  does  not  impose  on  us 
who  know  how  innocent  of  sanctity  or  of  Platonism 
he  is,  but  does  deceive  his  juniors  and  the  public, 
who  presently  distinguish  him  with  a  most  amusing 
respect :  and  this  lets  us  into  the  secret  that  the 
venerable  forms  that  so  awed  our  childhood  were 
just  such  imposters.  Nature  is  full  of  freaks,  and 
now  puts  an  old  head  on  young  shoulders,  and  then 
a  young  heart  beating  under  fourscore  winters. 

For  if  the  essence  of  age  is  not  present,  these 


OLD  AGE.  299 

signs,  whether  of  Art  or  Nature,  are  counterfeit 
and  ridiculous  :  and  the  essence  of  age  is  intellect. 
Wherever  that  appears,  we  call  it  old.  If  we  look 
into  the  eyes  of  the  youngest  person  we  sometimes 
discover  that  here  is  one  who  knows  already  what 
you  would  go  about  with  much  pains  to  teach  him  ; 
there  is  that  in  him  which  is  the  ancestor  of  all 
around  him :  which  fact  the  Indian  Vedas  express 
when  they  say,  "  He  that  can  discriminate  is  the 
father  of  his  father."  And  in  our  old  British 
legends  of  Arthur  and  the  Round  Table,  his  friend 
and  counsellor,  Merlin  the  Wise,  is  a  babe  found 
exposed  in  a  basket  by  the  river-side,  and,  though 
an  infant  of  only  a  few  days,  speaks  articulately  to 
those  who  discover  him,  tells  his  name  and  history, 
and  presently  foretells  the  fate  of  the  by-standers. 
Wherever  there  is  power,  there  is  age.  Don't  be 
deceived  by  dimples  and  curls.  I  tell  you  that 
babe  is  a  thousand  years  old. 

Time  is  indeed  the  theatre  and  seat  of  illu 
sion  :  nothing  is  so  ductile  and  elastic.  The  mind 
stretches  an  hour  to  a  century  and  dwarfs  ail  age 
to  an  hour.  Saadi  found  in  a  mosque  at  Damascus 
an  old  Persian  of  a  hundred  and  fifty  years,  who 
was  dying,  and  was  saying  to  himself,  "I  said, 
coming  into  the  world  by  birth,  '  I  will  enjoy  my 
self  for  a  few  moments.'  Alas  !  at  the  variegated 

O 

table  of  life  I  partook  of  a  few  niouthfuls,  and  the 


300  OLD  AGE. 

Fates  said,  ;  Enough  !  '  That  which  does  not 
decay  is  so  central  and  controlling  in  us,  that,  as 
long  as  one  is  alone  by  himself,  he  is  not  sensible 
of  the  inroads  of  time,  which  always  begin  at  the 
surf  ace  -  edges.  If,  on  a  winter  day,  you  should 
stand  within  a  bell-glass,  the  face  and  color  of  the 
afternoon  clouds  would  not  indicate  whether  it  were 
June  or  January  ;  and  if  we  did  not  find  the  reflec 
tion  of  ourselves  in  the  eyes  of  the  young  people, 
we  could  not  know  that  the  century-clock  had 
struck  seventy  instead  of  twenty.  How  many  men 
habitually  believe  that  each  chance  passenger  with 
whom  they  converse  is  of  their  own  age,  and  pres 
ently  find  it  was  his  father  and  not  his  brother 
whom  they  knew  ! 

But  not  to  press  too  hard  on  these  deceits  and 
illusions  of  Nature,  which  are  inseparable  from 
our  condition,  and  looking  at  age  under  an  aspect 
more  conformed  to  the  common-sense,  if  the  ques 
tion  be  the  felicity  of  age,  I  fear  the  first  popular 
judgments  will  be  unfavorable.  From  the  point 
of  sensuous  experience,  seen  from  the  streets  and 
markets  and  the  haunts  of  pleasure  and  gain,  the 
estimate  of  age  is  low,  melancholy  and  sceptical. 
Frankly  face  the  facts,  and  see  the  result.  To 
bacco,  coffee,  alcohol,  hashish,  prussic  acid,  strych 
nine,  are  weak  dilutions  :  the  surest  poison  is  time. 
This  cup  which  Nature  puts  to  our  lips,  has  a  won- 


OLD  AGE.  301 

derf ul  virtue,  surpassing  that  of  any  other  draught. 
It  opens  the  senses,  adds  power,  fills  us  with  ex 
alted  dreams,  which  we  call  hope,  love,  ambition, 
science :  especially,  it  creates  a  craving  for  larger 
draughts  of  itself.  But  they  who  take  the  larger 
draughts  are  drunk  with  it,  lose  their  stature, 
strength,  beauty,  and  senses,  and  end  in  folly  and 
delirium.  We  postpone  our  literary  work  until  we 
have  more  ripeness  and  skill  to  write,  and  we  one 
day  discover  that  our  literary  talent  was  a  youthful 
effervescence  which  we  have  now  lost.  We  had  a 
judge  in  Massachusetts  who  at  sixty  proposed  to 
resign,  alleging  that  he  perceived  a  certain  decay 
in  his  faculties ;  he  was  dissuaded  by  his  friends, 
on  account  of  the  public  convenience  at  that  time. 
At  seventy  it  was  hinted  to  him  that  it  was  time  to 
retire ;  but  he  now  replied  that  he  thought  his 
judgment  as  robust  and  all  his  faculties  as  good  as 
ever  they  were.  But  besides  the  self-deception,  the 
strong  and  hasty  laborers  of  the  street  do  not  work 
v/ell  with  the  chronic  valetudinarian.  Youth  is 
everywhere  in  place.  Age,  like  woman,  requires 
fit  surroundings.  Age  is  comely  in  coaches,  in 
churches,  in  chairs  of  state  and  ceremony,  in  coun 
cil-chambers,  in  courts  of  justice  and  historical  so 
cieties.  Age  is  becoming  in  the  country.  But  in 
the  rush  and  uproar  of  Broadway,  if  you  look  into 
the  faces  of  the  passengers  there  is  dejection  or  in- 


302  OLD  AGE. 

dignation  in  the  seniors,  a  certain  concealed  sense 
of  injury,  and  the  lip  made  up  with  a  heroic  deter 
mination  not  to  mind  it.  Few  envy  the  considera 
tion  enjoyed  by  the  oldest  inhabitant.  We  do  not 
count  a  man's  years,  until  he  has  nothing  else  to 
count.  The  vast  inconvenience  of  animal  immor 
tality  was  told  in  the  fable  of  Tithonus.  In  short, 
the  creed  of  the  street  is,  Old  Age  is  not  disgrace 
ful,  but  immensely  disadvantageous.  Life  is  well 
enough,  but  we  shall  all  be  glad  to  get  out  of  it, 
and  they  will  all  be  glad  to  have  us. 

This  is  odious  on  the  face  of  it.  Universal  con 
victions  are  not  to  be  shaken  by  the  whimseys  of 
overfed  butchers  and  firemen,  or  by  the  sentimental 
fears  of  girls  who  would  keep  the  infantile  bloom 
on  their  cheeks.  We  know  the  value  of  experi 
ence.  Life  and  art  are  cumulative ;  and  he  who 
has  accomplished  something  in  any  department 
alone  deserves  to  be  heard  on  that  subject.  A  man 
of  great  employments  and  excellent  performance 
used  to  assure  me  that  he  did  not  think  a  man 
worth  anything  until  he  was  sixty ;  although  this 
smacks  a  little  of  the  resolution  of  a  certain  "  Young 
Men's  Republican  Club,"  that  all  men  should  be 
held  eligible  who  were  under  seventy.  But  in  all 
governments,  the  councils  of  power  were  held  by 
the  old ;  and  patricians  or  patres,  senate  or  senes, 
seigneurs  or  seniors,  gerousia,  the  senate  of 


OLD  AGE.  803 

Sparta,  the  presbytery  of  the  Church,  and  the  like, 
all  signify  simply  old  men. 

The  cynical  creed  or  lampoon  of  the  market  is 
refuted  by  the  universal  prayer  for  long  life,  which 
is  the  verdict  of  Nature  and  justified  by  all  history. 
We  have,  it  is  true,  examples  of  an  accelerated 
pace  by  which  young  men  achieved  grand  works  ; 
as  in  the  Macedonian  Alexander,  in  Kaffaelle, 
Shakspeare,  Pascal,  Burns,  and  Byron. ;  but  these 
are  rare  exceptions.  Nature,  in  the  main,  vindi 
cates  her  law.  Skill  to  do  comes  of  doing ;  knowl 
edge  comes  by  eyes  always  open,  and  working 
hands ;  and  there  is  no  knowledge  that  is  not 
power.  Beranger  said,  "  Almost  all  the  good  work 
men  live  long."  And  if  the  life  be  true  and  noble, 
we  have  quite  another  sort  of  seniors  than  the 
frowzy,  timorous,  peevish  dotards  who  are  falsely 
old,  —  namely,  the  men  who  fear  no  city,  but  by 
whom  cities  stand;  who  appearing  in  any  street, 
the  people  empty  their  houses  to  gaze  at  and  obey 
them:  as  at  "My  Cid,  with"  the  •  fleec}r  beard,"  in 
Toledo ;  or  Bruce,  as  Barbour  reports  him  ;  as 
blind  old  Dandolo,  elected  Doge  at  eighty -four 
years,  storming  Constantinople  at  ninety-four,  and 
after  the  revolt  again  victorious  and  elected  at  the 
age  of  ninety-six  to  the  throne  of  the  Eastern  Em 
pire,  which  he  declined,  and  died  Doge  at  ninety- 
seven.  We  still  feel  the  force  of  Socrates,  "  whom 


304  OLD  AGE. 

well-advised  the  oracle  pronounced  wisest  of  men ; " 
of  Archimedes,  holding  Syracuse  against  the  Ro 
mans  by  his  wit,  and  himself  better  than  all  their 
nation  ;  of  Michel  Angelo,  wearing  the  four  crowns 
of  architecture,  sculpture,  painting,  and  poetry ;  of 
Galileo,  of  whose  blindness  Castelli  said,  "  The  no 
blest  eye  is  darkened  that  Nature  ever  made,  — -  an 
eye  that  hath  seen  more  than  all  that  went  before 
him,  and  hath  opened  the  eyes  of  all  that  shall 
come  after  him ;  "  of  Newton,  who  made  an  impor 
tant  discovery  for  every  one  of  his  eighty-five  years ; 
of  Bacon,  who  "  took  all  knowledge  to  be  his  prov 
ince  ;  "  of  Fontenelle,  "  that  precious  porcelain  vase 
laid  up  in  the  centre  of  France  to  be  guarded  with 
the  utmost  care  for  a  hundred  years ;  "  of  Frank 
lin,  Jefferson,  and  Adams,  the  wise  and  heroic 
statesmen  ;  of  Washington,  the  perfect  citizen ;  of 
Wellington,  the  perfect  soldier ;  of  Goethe,  the 
all-knowing  poet ;  of  Humboldt,  the  encyclopaedia 
of  science. 

Under  the  general  assertion  of  the  well-being  of 
age,  we  can  easily  count  particular  benefits  of  that 
condition.  It  has  weathered  the  perilous  capes 
and  shoals  in  the  sea  whereon  we  sail,  and  the 
chief  evil  of  life  is  taken  away  in  removing  the 
grounds  of  fear.  The  insurance  of  a  ship  expires 
as  she  enters  the  harbor  at  home.  It  were  strange 
if  a  man  should  turn  his  sixtieth  year  without  a 


OLD  AGE.  305 

feeling  of  immense  relief  from  the  number  of  clan 
gers  lie  has  escaped.  When  the  old  wife  says, 
'  Take  care  of  that  tumor  in  your  shoulder,  perhaps 
it  is  cancerous,'  —  he  replies,  '  I  am  yielding  to  a 
surer  decomposition.'  The  humorous  thief  who 
drank  a  pot  of  beer  at  the  gallows  blew  off  the 
froth  because  he  had  heard  it  was  unhealthy ;  but 
it  will  not  add  a  pang  to  the  prisoner  marched  out 
to  be  shot,  to  assure  him  that  the  pain  in  his  knee 
threatens  mortification.  When  the  pleuro-pneu- 
rnonia  of  the  cows  raged,  the  butchers  said  that 
though  the  acute  degree  was  novel,  there  never  was  a 
time  when  this  disease  did  not  occur  among  cattle. 
All  men  carry  seeds  of  all  distempers  through  life 
latent,  and  we  die  without  developing  them  ;  such 
is  the  affirmative  force  of  the  constitution ;  but  if 
you  are  enfeebled  by  any  cause,  some  of  these  sleep 
ing  seeds  start  and  open.  Meantime,  at  every  stage 
we  lose  a  foe.  At  fifty  years,  'tis  said,  afflicted 
citizens  lose  their  sick-headaches.  I  hope  this  lie- 
cjira  is  not  as  movable  a  feast  as  that  one  I  an 
nually  look  for,  when  the  horticulturists  assure  me 
that  the  rose-bugs  in  our  gardens  disappear  on  the 
tenth  of  July ;  they  stay  a  fortnight  later  in  mine. 
But  be  it  as  it  may  with  the  sick-headache,  —  't  is 
certain  that  graver  headaches  and  heart-aches  are 
lulled  once  for  all  as  we  come  up  with  certain  goals 
of  time.  The  passions  have  answered  their  pur- 

VOL.  VII.  20 


306  OLD  AGE. 

pose  :  that  slight  but  dread  overweight  with  which 
in  each  instance  Nature  secures  the  execution  of 
her  aim,  drops  off.  To  keep  man  in  the  planet, 
she  impresses  the  terror  of  death.  To  perfect  the 
commissariat,  she  implants  in  each  a  certain  rapac 
ity  to  get  the  supply,  and  a  little  over  supply,  of 
his  wants.  To  insure  the  existence  of  the  race,  she 
reinforces  the  sexual  instinct,  at  the  risk  of  disor 
der,  grief,  and  pain.  To  secure  strength,  she  plants 
cruel  hunger  and  thirst,  which  so  easily  overdo 
their  office,  and  invite  disease.  But  these  tempo 
rary  stays  and  shifts  for  the  protection  of  the  young 
animal  are  shed  as  fast  as  they  can  be  replaced  by 
nobler  resources.  We  live  in  youth  amidst  this 
rabble  of  passions,  quite  too  tender,  quite  too  hun 
gry  and  irritable.  Later,  the  interiors  of  mind  and 
heart  open,  and  supply  grander  motives.  We  learn 
the  fatal  compensations  that  wait  on  every  act. 
Then,  one  after  another,  this  riotous  time-destroy 
ing  crew  disappear. 

I  count  it  another  capital  advantage  of  age,  this, 
that  a  success  more  or  less  signifies  nothing.  Lit 
tle  by  little  it  has  amassed  such  a  fund  of  merit 
that  it  can  very  well  afford  to  go  on  its  credit  when 
it  will.  When  I  chanced  to  meet  the  poet  Words 
worth,  then  sixty-three  years'  old,  he  told  me  that 
"  he  had  just  had  a  fall  and  lost  a  tooth,  and  when 
his  companions  were  much  concerned  for  the  mis- 


OLD  AGE.  307 

chance,  he  had  replied  that  he  was  glad  it  had  not 
happened  forty  years  before."  Well,  Nature  takes 
care  that  we  shall  not  lose  our  organs  forty  years 
too  soon.  A  lawyer  argued  a  cause  yesterday  in 
the  Supreme  Court,  and  I  was  struck  with  a  certain 
air  of  levity  and  defiance  which  vastly  became  him. 
Thirty  years  ago  it  was  a  serious  concern  to  him 
whether  his  pleading  was  good  and  effective.  Now 
it  is  of  importance  to  his  client,  but  of  none  to 
himself.  It  has  been  long  already  fixed  what  he 
can  do  and  cannot  do,  and  his  reputation  does  not 
gain  or  suffer  from  one  or  a  dozen  new  perform 
ances.  If  he  should  on  a  new  occasion  rise  quite 
beyond  his  mark  and  achieve  somewhat  great  and 
extraordinary,  that,  of  course,  would  instantly  tell ; 
but  he  may  go  below  his  mark  with  impunity,  and 
people  will  say,  '  O,  he  had  headache,'  or  '  He  lost 
his  sleep  for  two  nights.'  What  a  lust  of  appear- 
-ance,  what  a  load  of  anxieties  that  once  degraded 
him  he  is  thus  rid  of !  Every  one  is  sensible  of 
this  cumulative  advantage  in  living.  All  the  good 
days  behind  him  are  sponsors,  who  speak  for  him 
when  he  is  silent,  pay  for  him  when  he  has  no 
money,  introduce  him  where  he  has  no  letters,  and 
work  for  him  when  he  sleeps. 

A  third  felicity  of  age  is  that  it  has  found  ex 
pression.  The  youth  suffers  not  only  from  ungrati- 
ficd  desires,  but  from  powers  untried,  and  from  a 


308  OLD  AGE. 

picture  in  his  mind  of  a  career  which  has  as  yet  no 
outward  reality.  He  is  tormented  with  the  want 
of  correspondence  between  things  and  thoughts. 
Michel  Aiigelo's  head  is  full  of  masculine  and 
gigantic  figures  as  gods  walking,  which  make  him 
savage  until  his  furious  chisel  can  render  them  into 
marble ;  and  of  architectural  dreams,  until  a  hun 
dred  stone-masons  can  lay  them  in  courses  of  trav 
ertine.  There  is  the  like  tempest  in  every  good 
head  in  which  some  great  benefit  for  the  world  is 
planted.  The  throes  continue  until  the  child  is 
born.  Every  faculty  new  to  each  man  thus  goads 
him  and  drives  him  out  into  doleful  deserts  until  it 
finds  proper  vent.  All  the  functions  of  human 
duty  irritate  and  lash  him  forward,  bemoaning 
and  chiding,  until  they  are  performed.  He  wants 
friends,  employment,  knowledge,  power,  house  and 
land,  wife  and  children,  honor  and  fame  ;  he  has 
religious  wants,  aBsthetic  wants,  domestic,  civil,  hu 
mane  wants.  One  by  one,  day  after  day,  he  learns 
to  coin  his  wishes  into  facts.  He  has  his  calling, 
homestead,  social  connection  and  personal  power, 
and  thus,  at  the  end  of  fifty  years,  his  soul  is  ap 
peased  by  seeing  some  sort  of  correspondence  be 
tween  his  wish  and  his  possession.  This  makes 
the  value  of  age,  the  satisfaction  it  slowly  offers  to 
every  craving.  He  is  serene  who  does  not  feel 
himself  pinched  and  wronged,  but  whose  condition, 


OLD  AGE.  809 

in  particular  and  in  general,  allows  the  utterance 
of  his  mind.  In  old  persons,  when  thus  filly  ex 
pressed,  we  often  observe  a  fair,  plump,  perennial, 
waxen  complexion,  which  indicates  that  rJl  the  fer 
ment  of  earlier  clays  has  subsided  intc  serenity  of 
thought  and  behavior. 

The  compensations  of  Natr.re  play  m  age  as  in 
youth.  In  a  world  so  charged  and  sparkling  with 
power,  a  man  does  not  live  long  and  actively  wJtb- 
out  costly  additions  of  experience,  which,  though 
not  spoken,  are  recorded  in  his  mind.  What  to  the 
youth  is  only  a  guess  or  a  hope,  is  in  the  veteran  a 
digested  statute.  He  beholds  the  feats  of  the  jun 
iors  with  complacency,  but  as  one  who  having  long 
ago  known  these  games,  has  refined  them  into  re 
sults  and  morals.  The  Indian  Red  Jacket,  when 
the  young  braves  were  boasting  their  deeds,  said, 
"  But  the  sixties  have  all  the  twenties  and  forties 
in  them." 

For  a  fourth  benefit,  age  sets  its  house  in  order, 
and  finishes  its  works,  which  to  every  artist  is  a 
supreme  pleasure.  Youth  has  an  excess  of  sensibil 
ity,  before  which  every  object  glitters  and  attracts. 
We  leave  one  pursuit  for  another,  and  the  young- 
man's  year  is  a  heap  of  beginnings.  At  the  end 
of  a  twelvemonth,  he  has  nothing  to  show  for  it,  — 
not  one  completed  work.  But  the  time  is  not  lost. 
Our  instincts  drove  us  to  hive  innumerable  experi- 


310  OLD  AGE. 

ences,  that  are  yet  of  no  visible  value,  and  which 
we  may  keep  for  twice  seven  years  before  they 
shall  be  wanted.  The  best  things  are  of  secular 
growth.  The  instinct  of  classifying  marks  the  wise 
and  healthy  mind.  Linnaeus  projects  his  system, 
and  lays  out  his  twenty-four  classes  of  plants,  be 
fore  yet  he  has  found  in  Nature  a  single  plant  to 
justify  certain  of  his  classes.  His  seventh  class 
has  not  one.  In  process  of  time,  he  finds  with  de 
light  the  little  white  Trientalis,  the  only  plant  with 
seven  petals  and  sometimes  seven  stamens,  which 
constitutes  a  seventh  class  in  conformity  with  his 
system.  The  conchologist  builds  his  cabinet  whilst 
as  yet  he  has  few  shells.  He  labels  shelves  for 
classes,  cells  for  species  :  all  but  a  few  are  empty. 
But  every  year  fills  some  blanks,  and  with  accelerat 
ing  speed  as  he  becomes  knowing  and  known.  An 
old  scholar  finds  keen  delight  in  verifying  the  im 
pressive  anecdotes  and  citations  he  has  met  with  in 
miscellaneous  reading  and  hearing,  in  all  the  years 
of  youth.  We  carry  in  memory  important  anec 
dotes,  and  have  lost  all  clew  to  the  author  from 
whom  we  had  them.  We  have  a  heroic  speech  from 
Kome  or  Greece,  but  cannot  fix  it  on  the  man  who 
said  it.  We  have  an  admirable  line  worthy  of 
Horace,  ever  and  anon  resounding  in  our  mind's 
ear,  but  have  searched  all  probable  and  improbable 
books  for  it  in  vain.  We  consult  the  reading  men : 


OLD  AGE.  311 

but,  strangely  enough,  they  who  know  everything 
know  not  this.  But  especially  we  have  a  certain 
insulated  thought,  which  haunts  us,  but  remains  in 
sulated  and  barren.  Well,  there  is  nothing  for  all 
this  but  patience  and  time.  Time,  yes,  that  is  the 
finder,  the  unweariable  explorer,  not  subject  to  cas 
ualties,  omniscient  at  last.  The  day  comes  when 
the  hidden  author  of  our  story  is  found  ;  when  the 
brave  speech  returns  straight  to  the  hero  who  said 
it ;  when  the  admirable  verse  finds  the  poet  to 
whom  it  belongs  ;  and  best  of  all,  when  the  lonely 
thought,  which  seemed  so  wise,  yet  half-wise,  half- 
thought,  because  it  cast  no  light  abroad,  is  suddenly 
matched  in  our  mind  by  its  twin,  by  its  sequence, 
or  next  related  analogy,  which  gives  it  instantly 
radiating  power,  and  justifies  the  superstitious  in 
stinct  with  which  we  have  hoarded  it.  We  re 
member  our  old  Greek  Professor  at  Cambridge, 
an  ancient  bachelor,  amid  his  folios,  possessed  by 
this  hope  of  completing  a  task,  with  nothing  to 
break  his  leisure  after  the  three  hours  of  his  daily 
classes,  yet  ever  restlessly  stroking  his  leg  and  as 
suring  himself  "  he  should  retire  from  the  Univer 
sity  and  read  the  authors."  In  Goethe's  Romance, 
Makaria,  the  central  figure  for  wisdom  and  influ 
ence,  pleases  herself  with  withdrawing  into  soli 
tude  to  astronomy  and  epistolary  correspondence. 
Goethe  himself  carried  this  completion  of  studies 


312  OLD  AGE. 

to  the  highest  point.  Many  of  his  works  hung  on 
the  easel  from  youth  to  age,  and  received  a  stroke 
in  every  month  or  year.  A  literary  astrologer,  he 
never  applied  himself  to  any  task  but  at  the  happy 
moment  when  all  the  stars  consented.  Bentley 
thought  himself  likely  to  live  till  fourscore,  —  long 
enough  to  read  everything  that  was  worth  reading, 
—  "El  tune  magna  mci  sub  terris  ibit  imago" 
Much  wider  is  spread  the  pleasure  which  old  men 
take  in  completing  their  secular  affairs,  the  in 
ventor  his  inventions,  the  agriculturist  his  experi 
ments,  and  all  old  men  in  finishing  their  houses, 
rounding  their  estates,  clearing  their  titles,  reduc 
ing  tangled  interests  to  order,  reconciling  enmities, 
and  leaving  all  in  the  best  posture  for  the  future. 
It  must  be  believed  that  there  is  a  proportion  be 
tween  the  designs  of  a  man  and  the  length  of  his 
life :  there  is  a  calendar  of  his  years,  so  of  his  per 
formances. 

America  is  the  country  of  young  men,  and  too 
full  of  work  hitherto  for  leisure  and  tranquillity  ; 
yet  we  have  had  robust  centenarians,  and  examples 
of  dignity  and  wisdom.  I  have  lately  found  in  an 
old  note-book  a  record  of  a  visit  to  ex-President 
John  Adams,  in  1825,  soon  after  the  election  of  his 
son  to  the  Presidency.  It  is  but  a  sketch,  and 
nothing  important  passed  in  the  conversation ;  but 
it  reports  a  moment  in  the  life  of  a  heroic  person, 


OLD  AGE.  313 

who,  in  extreme  old  age,  appeared  still  erect  and 
worthy  of  his  fame. 

,  Feb.,  1825.     To-day  at  Quincy,  with 

my  brother,  by  invitation  of  Mr.  Adams's  family. 
The  old  President  sat  in  a  large  stuffed  arm-chair, 
dressed  in  a  blue  coat,  black  small-clothes,  white 
stockings  ;  a  cotton  cap  covered  his  bald  head. 
We  made  our  compliment,  told  him  he  must  let  us 
join  our  congratulations  to  those  of  the  nation  on 
the  happiness  of  his  house.  He  thanked  us,  and 
said  :  "  I  am  rejoiced,  because  the  nation  is  happy. 
The  time  of  gratulation  and  congratulations  is 
nearly  over  with  me ;  I  am  astonished  that  I  have 
lived  to  see  and  know  of  this  event.  I  have  lived 
now  nearly  a  century  ;  [he  was  ninety  in  the  fol 
lowing  October ;  ]  a  long,  harassed,  and  distracted 
life."  I  said,  "  The  world  thinks  a  good  deal  of 
joy  has  been  mixed  with  it."  — •  "  The  world  does 
not  know  "  he  replied,  "  how  much  toil,  anxiety, 
and  sorrow  I  have  suffered."  —  I  asked  if  Mr. 
Adams's  letter  of  acceptance  had  been  read  to  him. 
—  "  Yes,"  he  said,  and  added,  "  My  son  has  more 
political  prudence  than  any  man  that  I  know  who 
has  existed  in  my  time ;  he  never  was  put  off  his 
guard ;  and  I  hope  he  will  continue  such :  but  what 
effect  age  may  work  in  diminishing  the  power  of 
his  mind,  I  do  not  know ;  it  has  been  very  much 


314  OLD  ACE. 

on  the  stretch,  ever  since  he  was  born.  He  has  al 
ways  been  laborious,  child  and  man,  from  infancy." 
-When  Mr.  J.  Q.  Adams's  age  was  mentioned, 
he  said,  "  He  is  now  fifty-eight,  or  will  be  in  July ; " 
and  remarked  that  "  all  the  Presidents  were  of  the 
same  age  :  General  Washington  was  about  fifty- 
eight,  and  I  was  about  fifty-eight,  and  Mr.  Jeffer 
son,  and  Mr.  Madison,  and  Mr.  Monroe."  —  We 
inquired  when  he  expected  to  see  Mr.  Adams.  — 
He  said :  "  Never  :  Mr.  Adams  will  not  come  to 
Quincy  but  to  my  funeral.  It  would  be  a  great 
satisfaction  to  me  to  see  him,  but  I  don't  wish  him 
to  come  on  my  account."  He  spoke  of  Mr.  Lech- 
mere,  whom  he  "  well  remembered  to  have  seen 
come  down  daily,  at  a  great  age,  to  walk  in  the  old 
town-house,"  adding,  "  And  I  wish  I  could  walk 
as  well  as  he  did.  He  was  Collector  of  the  Cus 
toms  for  many  years  under  the  Royal  Govern 
ment."  —  E.  said :  "  I  suppose,  sir,  you  would  not 
have  taken  his  place,  even  to  walk  as  well  as  he."- 
"  No,  "  he  replied,  "  that  was  not  what  I  wanted." 
—  He  talked  of  Whitefield,  and  remembered  when 
he  was  a  Freshman  in  College  to  have  come  into 
town  to  the  Old  South  church,  [I  think,]  to  hear 
him,  but  could  not  get  into  the  house  ;  —  "I  how 
ever,  saw  him,"  he  said,  "  through  a  window,  and 
distinctly  heard  all.  He  had  a  voice  such  as  I 
never  heard  before  or  since.  He  cast  it  out  so  that 


OLD  AGE.  315 

you  might  hear  it  at  the  meeting-house,"  [pointing 
towards  the  Quincy  meeting-house,]  "  and  he  had 
the  grace  of  a  dancing-master,  of  an  actor  of  plays. 
His  voice  and  manner  helped  him  more  than  his 
sermons.  I  went  with  Jonathan  Sewall."  —  "  And 
you  were  pleased  with  him,  sir  ?  "  —  "  Pleased  !  I 
was  delighted  beyond  measure."  -  -  We  asked  if  at 
Whitefield's  return  the  same  popularity  continued. 
—  "  Not  the  same  fury,"  he  said,  "  not  the  same 
wild  enthusiasm  as  before,  but  a  greater  esteem,  as 
he  became  more  known.  He  did  not  terrify,  but 
was  admired." 

We  spent  about  an  hour  in  his  room.  He  speaks 
very  distinctly  for  so  old  a  man,  enters  bravely  into 
long  sentences,  which  are  interrupted  by  want  of 
breath,  but  carries  them  invariably  to  a  conclusion, 
without  correcting  a  word. 

He  spoke  of  the  new  novels  of  Cooper,  and 
"  Peep  at  the  Pilgrims,"  and  "  Saratoga,"  with 
praise,  and  named  with  accuracy  the  characters 
in  them.  He  likes  to  have  a  person  always  read 
ing  to  him,  or  company  talking  in  his  room,  and  is 
better  the  next  day  after  having  visitors  in  his 
chamber  from  morning  to  night. 

Pie  received  a  premature  report  of  his  son's  elec 
tion,  on  Sunday  afternoon,  without  any  excite 
ment,  and  told  the  reporter  he  had  been  hoaxed, 
for  it  was  not  yet  time  for  any  news  to  arrive.  The 


316  OLD  AGE. 

informer,  something  damped  in  his  heart,  insisted 
on  repairing  to  the  meeting-house,  and  proclaimed 
it  aloud  to  the  congregation,  who  were  so  over 
joyed  that  they  rose  in  their  seats  and  cheered 
thrice.  The  Reverend  Mr.  Whitney  dismissed 
them  immediately. 

When  life  has"  been  well  spent,  age  is  a  loss  of 
what  it  can  well  spare,  —  muscular  strength,  or 
ganic  instincts,  gross  bulk,  and  works  that  belong 
to  these.  But  the  central  wisdom,  which  was  old 
in  infancy,  is  young  in  fourscore  years,  and,  drop 
ping  off  obstructions,  leaves  in  happy  subjects  the 
mind  purified  and  wise.  I  have  heard  that  who 
ever  loves  is  in  no  condition  old.  I  have  heard 
that  whenever  the  name  of  man  is  spoken,  the  doc 
trine  of  immortality  is  announced ;  it  cleaves  to  his 
constitution.  The  mode  of  it  baffles  our  wit,  and 
no  whisper  comes  to  us  from  the  other  side.  But 
the  inference  from  the  working  of  intellect,  hiving 
knowledge,  hiving  skill,  —  at  the  end  of  life  just 
ready  to  be  born,  —  affirms  the  inspirations  of  af 
fection  and  of  the  moral  sentiment. 


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